THEWELL 

IN  THE 

DESERT 

ADELINE  RNAPP 


BANCROFT 
LIBRARY 

•fr 

THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 


THE  WELL  IN  THE  DESERT 


THE  WELL  IN  THE 
DESERT 


BY 


ADELINE  KNAPP 


OF  THE 

UNIVERSITY   J 

OF 


NEW  YORK 
THE  CENTURY  CO, 

1908 


BELCHER 


Copyright,  1908,  by 
THE  CENTURY  Co. 


Published  A  ugust,  1008 
All  rights  reserved 


THE   DE  VINNE   PRESS 


',  R  Y 


TO 

A.  L.  C. 

IN    MEMORY    OF    DESERT    DAYS 
AND    GREEN    PASTURES 


BOOK  ONE 
THE  VALLEY  OF  BACA 


.    31TY 

OF 

-ALIFC        _-• 


THE  WELL  IN  THE 
DESERT 


CHAPTER  I 

BLUE  GULCH  was  relaxing  after  the  ardors  of 
its  working-day.  From  the  direction  of  the 
Cheerful  Heart  Dance  Hall  issued  sounds  of  mirth 
and  festivity,  and  a  weaving  fantasy  of  shadows 
on  its  canvas  walls  proclaimed  to  those  without  that 
the  cheerful  hearts  were  in  executive  session. 

A  man  coming  furtively  along  Upper  Broadway 
made  a  detour  to  avoid  the  bar  of  light  that  shone 
through  the  open  door  of  the  hall.  He  passed  be- 
hind  the  building,  and  around  the  big  fandango, 
where  the  trip  of  feet  mingled  with  the  tinkle  of 
a  guitar  and  the  whirr  and  thump  of  a  wheel  of 
fortune. 

"It  can  \  be  anywhere  along  here,"  he  muttered, 

3 


THE  WELL  IN  THE  DESERT 

coming  back  to  the  road  and  pausing  to  survey  the 
starlit  scene. 

Blue  Gulch  had  but  one  street,  the  two  sides  of 
which  lay  at  different  levels,  separated  by  the  wide 
yawn  of  the  gulch  itself,  thrusting  into  the  moun- 
tain from  the  desert  below.  From  where  the  man 
stood  he  commanded  a  very  complete  view  of  the 
place.  In  nearly  every  house  was  a  light,  and  the 
shadows  thrown  upon  the  canvas  walls  gave  a  fair 
clue  to  the  occupations  of  those  within;  so  that 
during  the  early  part  of  each  evening  at  least 
neither  half  of  the  town  need  be  in  any  doubt  as 
to  how  the  other  half  was  living. 

The  life  and  gaiety  of  the  community  in  relaxa- 
tion seemed  to  gather  upon  the  upper  plane. 
Across  the  gulch  Lower  Broadway  lay  in  compara- 
tive darkness. 

The  man  drew  back  again  as  a  couple  of 
shadowy  forms  came  wavering  down  the  road. 
One  of  these  carried  a  lantern,  which  hung  low  at 
his  side,  revealing  the  heavy  miners'  boots  of  the 
pair,  and  casting  grotesque  shadows  up  the  moun- 
tain-side. 

"Where  's  Westcott?  Why  ain't  he  along?" 
one  asked,  as  they  passed. 

The  skulking  figure  in  the  shadow  strained  his 
ears  to  listen,  one  hand  pressed  upon  his  mouth  to 
keep  back  the  cough  that  would  have  betrayed  him. 

4 


THE  WELL  IN  THE  DESERT 

"He  's  back  at  his  office,  digging,"  was  the  care- 
less response.  "Westcott  ain't  a  very  cheerful 
cuss." 

The  two  laughed  lightly,  and  disappeared  within 
the  dance-hall. 

When  they  were  out  of  sight  the  man  came 
forth  again,  hurrying  past  the  glowing  windows 
of  the  Red  Light  Saloon,  stopping  beyond  it  to 
muffle  with  his  shapeless  hat  the  cough  that  took 
toll  of  his  strength.  He  leaned  panting  against  a 
boulder,  waiting  to  regain  his  breath. 

The  way  was  more  dimly  lighted  now.  He  was 
nearing  the  civic  center  of  the  place,  the  one  bit  of 
level  ground  in  the  gulch.  Here,  a  faint  light 
showing  from  one  window,  was  the  mining  com- 
pany's hospital.  Beyond  this  the  man  passed  a  big, 
barn-like  structure  of  wood,  that  announced  itself, 
by  a  huge,  white-lettered  sign,  showing  faintly  in 
the  starlight,  as  an  eating-house.  Next  it  was  the 
low  adobe  hotel  of  the  place,  and  farther  on,  be- 
yond a  dark  gap,  was  a  small  building,  boasting  a 
door  and  two  windows  in  its  narrow  front. 

The  visitor  regarded  this  place  consideringly. 
He  thought  it  more  than  likely  that  it  was  what 
he  sought.  Light  streamed  from  both  windows 
and,  stepping  close,  the  prowler  looked  within. 

What  he  saw  was  a  man  writing  at  a  rough  pine 
desk.  The  room  was  not  large.  One  or  two 

5 


THE  WELL  IN  THE  DESERT 

chairs,  a  couch,  and  some  rude  shelves,  where  a 
few  law  books  leaned;  a  small  earthen-ware  stove, 
now  glowing  with  heat,  completed  its  furnishings. 
The  watcher's  eyes  yearned  to  that  stove.  He  was 
shivering  in  the  chill  autumn  night,  and  he  wore 
no  coat.  With  a  muttered  curse  he  opened  the 
door  and  stepped  quickly  into  the  room. 

The  man  inside  looked  up  from  his  writing, 
peering  past  the  lamp  the  better  to  see  his  visitor. 
For  a  moment  he  stared,  incredulous,  then,  as  rec- 
ognition was  confirmed,  he  softly  slid  a  hand 
toward  one  drawer  of  his  desk.  The  new-comer 
noted  the  movement. 

"You  can  stow  that,"  he  snarled,  scornfully,  "I 
have  n't  got  any  gun." 

The  other's  fingers  had  already  closed  upon  the 
handle  of  a  revolver  that  lay  in  the  drawer.  With 
the  weapon  in  his  hand  he  crossed  quickly,  from 
one  window  to  the  other,  and  carefully  pulled  down 
the  shades.  The  intruder  had  stepped  into  the  full 
glare  of  the  lamp,  and  now  bent  forward,  his  hands 
upon  the  desk. 

As  he  stood  thus,  gaunt,  haggard,  panting,  he 
seemed  little  calculated  to  awaken  fear.  The 
hands  that  clutched  the  table's  edge  were  trembling 
and  emaciated,  and  of  a  curious,  waxy  pallor. 
This  same  pallor  was  in  his  drawn,  sunken  face, 
and  from  out  the  death-like  mask  of  its  whiteness 

6 


THE  WELL  IN  THE  DESERT 

the  man's  deep-set  eyes  gazed,  heavy  with  despair. 

"I  have  n't  got  any  gun,  Westcott,"  he  repeated. 
"You  need  n't  be  afraid.  You  played  a  damned, 
dirty  trick  on  me,  three  years  ago,  but  that  's  all 
done  with.  I  ain't  here  to  throw  it  up  against  you ; 
but  I  want  you  to  do  me  a  favor." 

The  lawyer  had  turned  the  key  in  the  lock  and 
stood  near  the  door,  watching  him  intently,  noting 
the  close-cropped  head,  the  thin,  pallid  face,  the 
nondescript  garments  of  the  wayfarer. 

"You  managed  to  escape,"  he  finally  said,  slowly. 

"Yes,  I  did,"  The  man  coughed,  clutching  the 
table  for  support. 

"I  got  away  last  week,"  he  explained,  panting. 
"Yes — and  I  stole  the  clothes,"  with  a  glance  at 
the  sleeves  of  his  rough  gray  shirt.  "I  'm  a  thief, 
now,  just  like  you,  Westcott." 

The  other  made  an  inarticulate  sound  in  his 
throat. 

"We  '11  let  all  that  pass,"  the  intruder  said,  with 
a  toss  of  one  gaunt  hand.  "I  'm  up  to  no  harm, 
but  I  Ve  got  to  have  help.  I  've  got  out  of  that 
hell  you  left  me  in  at  Phoenix ;  but  it  won't  do  me 
any  good.  I  'm  dying !" 

Another  fit  of  coughing  shook  him,  until  he 
reeled.  Westcott  pushed  a  chair  toward  him  and 
he  sank  into  it,  still  gripping  the  table. 

"I  'm  dying,"  he  said  again,  when  the  cough 

7 


THE  WELL  IN  THE  DESERT 

had  spent  itself,  "and  I  want  to  get  back  and  die  in 
God's  country." 

Westcott  sat  down  opposite  him,  still  watching 
him,  intently. 

"I  can't  walk  back,"  the  man  went  on,  "and  I 
ain't  fit  to  beat  it  back.  You  're  welcome  to  the 
fifteen  hundred  you  got  off  me;  but  can't  you — 
for  the  love  of  God,  won't  you — give  me  the  price 
of  a  ticket  back  to  Iowa  ?" 

His  dull,  sunken  eyes  were  akindle,  and  he 
leaned  forward,  an  agony  of  eagerness  in  his  eyes. 
The  prison-born  look  of  age  fell  from  him  for  the 
moment  and  it  became  apparent  that  he  was  not 
only  a  young  man,  but  must  once  have  been  a 
comely  one,  with  a  powerful  frame. 

"I  heard  you  were  attorney  for  the  Company 
here,"  he  went  on,  as  Westcott  still  kept  silent. 
"You  ought  to  be  able  to  do  that  for  me.  You  had 
fifteen  hundred  of  mine." 

The  attorney  flinched,  ever  so  slightly,  then  he 
rose,  dropping  the  revolver  into  his  coat  pocket, 
and  took  a  turn  about  the  room. 

"I — I  was  n't  such  a  beast  as  it  looks,"  he  finally 
said,  speaking  with  difficulty.  "I  Ve  been 
ashamed  of  myself:  I  meant  to  stay  and  try  to 
clear  you.  I  don't  know  how  I  came  to  do  it ;  but 
Jim  Texas  swore  't  was  you ;  and  I  lost  the  money 
playing  faro  at  Randy  Melone's." 

8 


THE  WELL  IN  THE  DESERT 

The  brief  glow  in  the  sunken  eyes  had  burned 
itself  out.  The  man  surveyed  Westcott,  appar- 
ently without  interest. 

"Jim  Texas  lied/'  he  said,  apathetically,  "and 
now  you  3re  lying.  You  paid  some  of  that  money 
to  Raoul  Marty  for  a  horse;  and  you  got  away 
with  most  of  the  rest  of  it  in  your  clothes.  You 
can  hear  things,  even  in  jail."  This  was  said  with 
a  weary  laugh,  in  which  was  no  mirth. 

"You  don't  always  hear  'em  straight,"  the  at- 
torney replied,  with  studied  gentleness. 

"I  was  ashamed,  Barker,"  he  went  on,  quickly. 
"I  Ve  been  sorry  ever  since." 

"Then  you  '11  give  me  the  price  of  a  ticket?" 
Hope  gleamed  again,  in  the  dull  eyes.  Westcott 
considered. 

"I  have  n't  got  the  money  here,"  he  mused; 
"but  I  think  I  can  raise  some  by  to-morrow.  How 
would  you  get  down  to  the  railroad?" 

"I  '11  take  care  o'  that—"  another  siege  of  that 
racking  cough.  Barker  leaned  back  in  his  chair, 
faint  and  gasping.  Westcott  drew  a  flask  and 
poured  some  of  its  contents  into  a  tin  cup.  The 
other  drained  it,  eagerly. 

"That  '11  help,"  he  murmured,  handing  back  the 
cup.  "I  ain't  always  so  weak  as  this;  but  I  Ve 
been  hitting  the  trail  for  a  week,  without  much 
grub." 

9 


THE  WELL  IN  THE  DESERT 

"Did  anyone  see  you  come  in?"  Westcott  asked, 
with  apparent  irrelevance. 

"No.    I  kept  out  of  sight." 

"Good!"  The  other  nodded.  "That  's  what 
you  '11  have  to  keep  doing." 

"I  Ve  got  to  go  out  and  see  what  I  can  do  about 
that  money,"  he  continued;  "and  you  Ve  got  to 
have  something  to  eat.  I  guess  I  '11  have  to  lock 
you  in  here  while  I  'm  gone,  in  case  anyone 
should  come  along.  You  need  n't  be  afraid  but 
that  I  '11  come  back,"  he  added,  as  the  other  looked 
up,  in  quick  suspicion.  "It 's  safer  so,  and  I  want 
you  to  have  something  to  eat." 

"I  sure  need  it,"  was  the  reply.    "Mighty  bad." 

"I  know  you  do;  I  '11  bring  it  soon  's  I  can." 
Westcott  moved  toward  the  door.  "You  lay  low 
till  I  get  back." 

"You  're  not  going  back  on  me?"  Barker  still 
studied  him. 

"Going  back  on  you?"  Westcott  laughed, 
shortly. 

"Lord !"  he  exclaimed,  "Do  you  think  I  did  n't 
have  enough  of  that  ?" 

He  threw  some  lumps  of  coal  into  the  little 
stove.  "I  '11  have  to  douse  the  glim,"  he  ex- 
plained, "since  I  '11  be  out  around  town,  and  some- 
one might  wonder  who  's  here.  You  can  lie  down 
there." 

10 


THE  WELL  IN  THE  DESERT 

He  waved  a  hand  toward  the  couch  and  Barker 
nodded. 

"I  'm  pegged  out/'  he  said,  wearily.  "I  '11  just 
sit  here  by  the  fire.  Lord!  How  long  is  it  since 
I  Ve  been  warm  ?" 

He  drew  his  chair  nearer  and  bent  to  the  glow. 
Westcott  lowered  the  light  and  blew  out  the  flame. 

"I  '11  lock  the  door  on  the  outside,"  he  said, 
"And  don't  you  worry,  Barker:  I  '11  take  care  of 
you.  Just  trust  me." 

"I  guess  I  've  got  to  trust  you,"  was  the  helpless 
reply,  "I  can't  do  anything  else."  And  Westcott 
stepped  out  into  the  night,  locking  the  door  behind 
him. 

Once  outside  he  walked  along  the  plaza  to  the 
head  of  the  gulch  and  stood  looking  down  upon 
the  town.  The  varied  sounds  of  a  mining  settle- 
ment at  night  came  plainly  to  his  ears.  A  new 
dancer  from  over  the  border  was  making  her  first 
appearance  at  Garvanza's  that  evening,  and  the 
Mexicans  were  gathered  in  force.  There  was  a 
crowd  of  miners  in  the  Red  Light  Saloon.  He 
could  hear  their  voices. 

"How  I  hate  it  all,"  he  muttered.  "I  wish  I  was 
out  of  it !" 

The  post-office  was  on  Lower  Broadway  in  the 
Company's  store,  where  a  single  light  burned, 
dimly.  Farther  down  was  the  school-house,  where 

ii 


THE  WELL  IN  THE  DESERT 

the  school-teacher  labored  by  day,  with  the  half- 
dozen  white  children  of  the  town,  and  twice  as 
many  young  Papegoes.  Behind  the  gulch,  climb- 
ing heavenward,  verdureless,  copper-ribbed,  aus- 
tere, lay  the  mountain,  where  the  mines  were. 

Westcott  had  been  in  Blue  Gulch  for  more  than 
a  year.  He  had  drifted  out  of  Phoenix  after  the 
Barker  affair,  glad  to  get  away,  where  he  was  sure 
no  one  knew  of  the  matter. 

There  had  been  no  question  about  Barker's  guilt. 
Jim  Texas  swore  to  having  seen  him  knife  Lundy. 
He  could  n't  have  saved  him  if  he  had  stayed, 
Westcott  told  himself.  He  had  never  understood 
why  they  had  not  hung  the  fellow,  instead  of  sen- 
tencing him  for  life. 

"Better  have  done  it  outright  than  to  kill  him 
by  inches  in  their  hell  of  a  jail,"  he  thought. 

But  now  what  was  to  be  done  with  the  man? 
Westcott  stood  scowling  at  a  house  down  the  gulch. 
There  was  a  light  inside  that  threw  upon  the  can- 
vas side- wall  the  gigantic  figure  of  a  woman, 
coughing.  It  reminded  him  unpleasantly  of  Bar- 
ker. 

"Damn  the  fellow,"  he  muttered.  "Wha  'd  he 
come  up  here  for,  anyway?  He  '11  never  live  to 
get  back  east."  He  walked  on,  turning  up  the 
collar  of  his  coat.  "It  's  corning  winter.  The 
cold  '11  kill  him." 

12 


THE  WELL  IN  THE  DESERT 

Again  he  stood  pondering,  while  one  by  one  the 
lights  down  the  gulch  went  out.  Then  he  be- 
thought himself,  of  his  errand  and  went  stumbling 
down  Lower  Broadway  in  the  dark. 

The  storekeeper  was  just  closing  up,  but  the 
young  fellow  turned  back  to  wait  upon  him. 

"I  won't  keep  you  more  'n  a  minute,  Farthing," 
he  said,  and  proceeded  to  buy  bread  and  cheese,  a 
tin  of  meat  and  a  couple  of  bottles  of  beer.  A 
little  package  of  tea  was  an  after-thought. 

"Going  prospecting,  Mr.  Westcott?"  the  clerk 
asked,  as  he  made  up  the  packages. 

"Maybe,"  was  the  reply. 

Westcott  was  at  the  door  as  he  spoke.  Young 
Farthing  was  putting  out  the  light. 

"Oh,  Johnnie,"  the  attorney  said,  with  the  air 
of  just  remembering,  "I  want  to  telephone  .  .  . 
'long  distance.'  I  'm  afraid  it  '11  take  some  time." 
He  half  hesitated. 

The  boy  looked  disappointed;  he  had  planned 
to  get  over  to  the  fandango  in  time  to  see  the  new 
dancer.  He  spoke  cheerfully  however. 

"That  's  all  right,  Mr.  Westcott,"  he  said,  and 
turned  up  the  lamp  again. 

"Why  can't  I  lock  up,  Johnnie?"  Westcott 
asked ;  "I  '11  bring  the  key  up  to  the  hotel  when  I 
come." 

"If  you  would  n't  mind—"   Farthing  looked 

13 


THE  WELL  IN  THE  DESERT 

relieved,  "Everything  's  all  right  but  just  turning 
out  the  light,"  he  added. 

"All  right."  Westcott  gave  him  a  little  push; 
"You  go  on,"  he  said,  cordially;  "I  can  lock  the 
door  as  hard  as  you !" 

"I  guess  that  's  true,  Mr.  Westcott,"  the  boy 
laughed,  and  with  a  relieved  "good-night,"  he  de- 
parted, as  Westcott  was  turning  toward  the  tele- 
phone-booth. 

Half  an  hour  later  the  attorney  was  in  his  own 
office,  boiling  water  in  a  tin  pail,  on  top  of  the 
little  stove,  while  Barker,  warmed  and  cheered, 
made  great  inroads  upon  the  bread  and  cheese  and 
the  tinned  meat.  Presently  Westcott  made  tea  in 
the  pail. 

"Seems  like  old  prospecting  days,  don't  it?"  he 
said  with  ostentatious  cheerfulness,  as  he  filled  the 
tin  cup.  "I  dare  say  you  've  had  your  share  of 
them?" 

"Some.  .  .  .  A-a-h!"  Barker  drank,  blissfully, 
of  the  strong,  scalding  brew. 

"I  located  a  good  claim  once,"  he  said,  setting 
down  the  cup.  "But  it  was  jumped.  All  I  ever 
got  was — " 

He  paused,  in  some  embarrassment,  and  changed 
the  subject.  "Great  stuff,  that  tea,"  he  said,  and 
Westcott  refilled  the  tin  cup. 

"I  've  done  better  for  you  than  I  hoped  to,"  he 
volunteered  presently.  "I  could  n't  raise  the 


THE  WELL  IN  THE  DESERT 

money  in  the  town— too  near  pay-day;  but  I  got  a 
pal  of  mine  on  the  'phone.  He  can  let  me  have  the 
cash,  and  I  '11  get  it  to-morrow.  Don't  you  worry, 
Barker."  He  answered  the  question,  in  the  other's 
eyes,  "I  'm  looking  out  for  you  all  right.  You 
don't  need  to  worry." 

"I  'm  a  pretty  sick  man,"  Barker  answered,  his 
white  face  flushing.  "I  know  I  'm  done  for ;  but  I 
want  to  die  in  the  open." 

"Don't  you  talk  about  dying."  Westcott  went 
about  the  place  making  it  secure  for  the  night. 
"You  '11  be  snug  as  can  be  here,"  he  added,  "By 
seven  o'clock  to-morrow  morning  this  town  '11  be 
practically  empty.  All  the  men  '11  be  at  the  mine. 
Sime  's  going  down  to  the  plain  to  meet  the  stage, 
and  the  school-teacher  '11  be  busy.  We  '11  get  you 
off  in  good  shape." 

He  took  some  papers  from  the  desk  and  put 
them  in  his  pocket. 

"I  would  n't  show  myself,  though,"  he  said. 
"Keep  the  curtains  down,  and  lay  low.  Lock  the 
door  after  me,  and  take  out  the  key." 

At  the  last  words  the  man's  look  of  anxiety  van- 
ished. 

"All  right,"  he  replied.  "I  '11  sure  lay  low.  I 
have  n't  slept  much  in  a  week.  I  '11  be  glad  enough 
to  take  the  chance." 

"So  long,  then,"  Westcott  said,  slipping  out. 

"So  long/'  and  the  key  turned  in  the  lock. 


CHAPTER  II 

HAVING  secured  the  door,  Barker  took  the  key 
from  the  lock  and  hung  his  hat  upon  the  knob. 

"Don't  want  anyone  peeking  in,"  he  murmured, 
as  he  resumed  his  seat  by  the  fire.  He  was  no 
longer  cold,  but  there  was  companionship  in  its 
glow. 

The  meager  little  office  was  a  palace  compared 
with  the  cell  from  which  he  had  escaped,  he 
thought  as  he  looked  about  him  in  the  dim  light 
from  the  open  door  of  the  stove. 

"If  he  plays  me  any  more  tricks—"  His  mind 
reverted  to  Westcott,  and  the  cold  sweat  stood 
upon  his  forehead  at  the  idea  of  possible  treachery. 

"Pshaw !"  he  muttered.  "There  's  nothing  more 
he  can  do.  He  's  done  it  all.  God !  To  think  I 
swore  to  kill  him  at  sight,  and  here  I  am  begging 
favors  of  him." 

The  angry  snarl  in  his  voice  changed  to  a  cough, 
and  ended  in  a  whimper. 

"I  could  n't  do  anything  else,"  he  pleaded,  as 
16 


THE  WELL  IN  THE  DESERT 

though  arguing  with  someone.  "I  want  to  get 
back  east.  I  want  to  die  in  the  open.  Hell !  I  was 
going  mad  in  that  hole." 

He  rested  his  head  between  his  fists,  torturing 
himself  with  memories  of  the  days  before  he 
crossed  the  Divide,  the  youngest  chain-man  in  the 
surveyors'  gang  of  a  projected  new  railroad.  He 
had  come  from  Iowa,  and  boy-like  he  sang  the 
praises  of  his  native  state  all  across  -the  alkali 
plains,  until,  in  derision,  his  fellows  dubbed  him 
"the  Iowa  barker." 

The  name  stuck.  In  Nevada  he  was  plain 
"Barker."  The  others  seemed  to  have  forgotten 
his  real  name,  and  as  Barker,  when  he  left  the 
outfit,  he  drifted  down  into  Arizona.  He  blessed 
the  easy  transition  when  the  trouble  came  that  fixed 
the  killing  of  big  Dan  Lundy  on  him.  He  had 
kept  his  real  name  secret  through  all  that  came 
after. 

What  had  it  all  been  about?  What  was  he  do- 
ing here  to-night?  Why  had  n't  he  killed  West- 
cott,  instead  of  sitting  here  by  his  fire? 

He  passed  a  wavering  hand  before  his  eyes.  Oh, 
yes.  Now  he  remembered.  Westcott  was  'going 
to  send  him  east— to  God's  country.  Meanwhile, 
he  was  dead  for  sleep.  He  caught  himself,  as  he 
lurched  in  his  chair,  and  rising  heavily,  he  threw 
himself  upon  the  couch. 


THE  WELL  IN  THE  DESERT 

IT  was  past  noon  when  he  woke.  The  sun  lighted 
the  yellow  curtains;  the  door  stood  open,  and 
Westcott  bent  over  him,  shaking  him  by  the 
shoulder. 

"Barker!  Barker!"  the  attorney  called. 

"Barker!  Wake  up!  Time  to  get  out  of  this. 
I  Ve  got  a  chance  to  send  you  down  to  the  rail- 
road." 

By  degrees  he  struggled  to  consciousness,  and 
sat  up.  Westcott  had  brought  him  a  big  cup  of 
steaming  coffee. 

"Drink  this,"  he  said,  not  unkindly. 

"My  friend  came  up  with  the  money,"  he  went 
on,  as  Barker  drank,  sitting  sidewise  on  the  couch. 
"He  's  going  to  take  you  down  in  his  buggy.  He  '11 
fix  you  up  all  right." 

Barker  was  still  dazed  with  sleep.  His  ears 
rang,  and  the  lawyer's  voice  sounded  strange  and 
far  away.  The  coffee  made  him  feel  better.  It 
soothed  the  cough  that  had  racked  him  the  moment 
he  sat  up. 

"Now  eat  some  grub,"  Westcott  said. 

He  had  brought  food  from  the  hotel.  Barker 
was  still  too  far  off  to  wonder  at  this.  He  had  no 
desire  for  food,  but  he  ate,  obediently. 

Westcott,  meantime,  had  gone  outside.  In  front 
of  the  hotel  stood  a  big,  rangy  bay  horse,  hitched 
to  a  light  road-wagon.  Near  the  outfit  lounged  a 

18 


THE  WELL  IN  THE  DESERT 

tall,  determined-looking  man,  who  came  forward 
when  he  saw  the  attorney. 

"I  've  got  to  be  getting  a  move  on  soon,"  he 
said.  "It  '11  be  late  night,  as  't  is,  before  we  get 
there." 

"He  '11  be  ready  in  the  shake  of  a  horn,"  the 
other  replied. 

"Say,  Frank,"  he  continued.  "He  don't  know 
who  you  are.  I  Ve  let  on  you  're  a  friend  of  mine, 
going  to  take  him  down.  Let  him  think  that  till 
you  get  out  of  town." 

"Must  be  a  dead  easy  one,"  the  man  addressed  as 
Frank  said. 

"Well,  you  see,"  Westcott  laughed,  nervously, 
"I  doped  him  pretty  well  last  night— the  poor  devil 
coughed  so,"  he  added,  in  explanation,  and  the 
deputy  sheriff  gave  a  grunt  that  might  mean  any- 
thing. It  brought  a  flush  of  embarrassment  to 
Westcott's  face. 

"Come  on,"  he  said,  shortly,  turning  toward  his 
office.  The  deputy  climbed  into  his  buggy  and 
drove  after  him. 

"Got  to  hurry,  Barker,"  Westcott  called,  open- 
ing the  door. 

He  escorted  his  charge  briskly  outside. 

"This  is  Mr.  Arnold,"  he  mumbled,  beside  the 
wagon.  "A  friend  of  mine  that  '11  see  you  fixed 
all  right." 

19 


THE  WELL  IN  THE  DESERT 

The  man  holding  the  reins  scrutinized  Barker 
closely  as  the  latter  climbed  up  beside  him. 

"All  right,"  he  decided,  finally,  speaking  to 
Westcott,  and  handed  the  attorney  a  folded  paper. 

"That  's  what  you  were  after,"  he  said,  briefly. 
"So  long." 

A  word  to  the  bay  colt  and  they  were  swinging 
down  Upper  Broadway  at  a  pace  that  made  Barker 
catch  his  breath  as  he  noted  the  narrow  road,  and 
the  steep  canon-side. 

"It  'd  sure  be  a  long  fall,"  his  companion  said, 
answering  his  look,  "But  we  ain't  goin'  to  take  it. 
You  can  bank  on  the  colt.  He  's  sure-footed  as  a 
deer." 

"I  ain't  afraid,"  Barker  responded.  The  fresh, 
sweet  air  was  beginning  to  clear  his  brain  and  he 
sat  up  straighter,  a  touch  of  color  coming  into  his 
death-like  face.  The  other  man  avoided  his  glance, 
giving  all  his  attention  to  the  colt,  who  was  swiftly 
putting  distance  between  them  and  the  town.  The 
exigencies  of  the  steep,  rough  road  made  such 
attention  necessary  and  neither  man  spoke  again 
until  they  had  traversed  the  narrow  pass,  and  were 
out  of  the  gulch.  A  sudden  turn  of  the  way 
brought  them  among  the  foothills,  the  broad,  yel- 
low expanse  of  cactus-dotted  plain  before  them. 

"Does  n't  seem  as  far  as  it  did  when  I  footed  it 
in  last  night,"  Barker  said  at  last,  with  an  attempt 

20 


THE  WELL  IN  THE  DESERT 

to  smile,  and  Arnold  nodded.  The  bay  colt  was  a 
good  traveler,  and  they  were  on  the  level  now,  fol- 
lowing the  road  that  wound  its  spiritless,  grey  way 
among  the  cacti.  The  colt  took  it  in  long,  free 
strides,  that  promised  to  get  them  somewhere  by 
daylight. 

"Good  horse  you  got  there,"  Barker  said,  with 
a  country-bred  man's  interest  in  animals.  "Mighty 
good  shoulders." 

"You  bet!"  was  the  deputy's  hearty  response. 
"Good  for  all  day,  too." 

"I  raised  him  myself/'  he  went  on,  "and  he  's 
standard  bred,  too,  Daystar,  out'n  an  Alcantara 
mare."  He  spoke  with  proper  pride,  as  the  owner 
of  a  good  horse  may. 

"They  raise  some  fine  stock  back  in  Iowa,"  Bar- 
ker remarked,  and  his  companion's  fount  of  speech 
seemed  suddenly  to  run  dry.  Barker  waited,  ex- 
pectant, for  some  little  time. 

"Where  are  we  going  to  hit  the  railroad?"  He 
asked,  at  last. 

"The  railroad?"    Arnold  looked  puzzled. 

"Westcott  said  you  'd  land  me  where  I  could 
get  the  train  east,"  the  other  explained.  "He  said 
you  had  the  price  of  a  ticket  for  me.  It  's  all  on 
the  level,  ain't  it?"  he  demanded,  his  voice  going 
higher. 

"Oh—    Oh  lyes,  yes!    It 's  all  fixed.    Don't  you 

21 


THE  WELL  IN  THE  DESERT 

worry  none."  The  bronze  of  the  deputy's  face 
crimsoned. 

"Don't  you  worry  none,"  he  repeated,  with  a 
glance  at  the  sky. 

An  ominous  cloud  lowered,  overhead.  The  sun 
was  hidden,  and  the  air  had  grown  chill.  A  fit  of 
coughing  had  followed  Barker's  flash  of  excite- 
ment, and  he  crouched  in  his  seat,  shivering 
slightly. 

"Look  here,"  Arnold  exclaimed,  "you  ain't 
dressed  warm  enough.  They  's  some  kind  of 
weather  breeding." 

He  reached  beneath  the  wagon-seat  and  pulled 
forth  his  own  coat. 

"Put  this  on,"  he  directed.  "I  Ve  got  my 
sweater  on,  and  don't  need  it." 

Barker  pushed  it  back. 

"I  'm  all  right,"  he  said.  "You  '11  need  that 
yourself." 

"You  do  what  I  tell  you,"  the  deputy  insisted. 
"Put  it  over  your  shoulders.  The  wind  's  at  your 
back." 

He  thrust  the  garment  across  his  companion's 
wasted  shoulders  and  Barker  drew  the  sleeves 
across  his  chest. 

As  he  did  so  his  hand  touched  something  hard, 
under  one  lapel.  He  glanced  down  at  it,  and 
started. 

22 


•      THE  WELL  IN  THE  DESERT 

"What  's  that?"  he  cried,  turning  the  metal 
badge  up  for  closer  inspection. 

A  groan  of  horror  escaped  him  as  he  recognized 
the  object. 

He  sprang  to  his  feet,  his  long,  gaunt  hands 
reaching  for  the  deputy's  throat.  Arnold  swept 
him  back  with  one  motion  of  his  powerful  arm. 

"Don't  you  do  anything  like  that,"  he  said,  with 
rough  kindness.  "You  'd  be  just  a  skeeter  if  I 
took  hold  of  you,  and  I  don't  want  to.  Suffering 
snakes !"  he  pleaded,  "Don't  look  like  that !  I  'm 
sorry,  man;  by  Heaven,  I  've  hated  this  job  like 
blue  poison,  ever  since  I  laid  eyes  on  you." 

The  words  died  away  in  his  throat  before  the 
dumb  misery  in  the  other  man's  face.  The  wasted 
figure  was  slumped  forward  in  an  abandon  of 
despair.  All  the  man's  pride  and  courage  died  in 
the  face  of  his  fearful  disappointment. 

"Oh,  God!  Oh,  God!"  he  moaned.  "And  I 
thought  I  was  going  to  die  in  the  open." 

He  turned  to  the  deputy,  a  sudden  hope  lighting 
his  woe. 

"Let  me  get  out,"  he  begged.  "Let  me  get  out 
right  here.  I  can't  get  anywheres :  I  'm  bound  to 
die;  but  it  '11  be  out  in  the  open.  Please  let  me 
out." 

"I  can't."  The  words  came  through  Arnold's 
set  teeth. 

23 


THE  WELL  IN  THE  DESERT 

"Why  not  ?  I  never  killed  Dan  Lundy.  Before 
God,  I  never  laid  a  finger  on  him."  Barker  spoke 
fast  and  thick,  in  his  eagerness. 

"I  went  to  his  shack  and  found  him  there, 
knifed  to  death.  And  Jim  Texas  swore  he  saw  me 
do  it.  Swore  it,  mind  you;  when  Hart  Dowling 
and  I  both  knew  Texas  had  threatened  Lundy 
time  and  again." 

A  fit  of  coughing  interrupted  him,  but  he  went 
on  as  soon  as  he  could,  his  hoarse  voice  breaking 
now  and  then. 

"And  Westcott  came  sneaking  'round  to  see 
what  there  was  in  it  for  him.  He  was  just  start- 
ing in  then,  and  I  'd  heard  he  was  a  smart  fellow. 
I  told  him  of  the  fifteen  hundred  dollars  dust  I 
had  hid  in  my  shack.  He  was  to  find  Dowling. 
Dowling  'd  gone  up  into  Wyoming.  Westcott 
was  to  get  him  down  here  as  a  witness.  And  the 
damned  coyote  was  to  have  my  fifteen  hundred." 

Again  the  racking  cough,  and  his  voice  trailed 
ofr"  in  a  choking  struggle  for  breath.  He  was 
shrieking  when  he  continued. 

"And  Westcott  took  the  money!  Took  it  out 
of  my  shack,  and  never  came  near  me  again.  Left 
me  to  die.  They  'd  ha'  hung  me,  sure,  if  some  of 
the  jury  had  n't  believed  Jim  Texas  lied." 

The  deputy's  face  was  twisted  with  pity  and 
shame ;  the  man  was  so  horribly  broken. 

24 


THE  WELL  IN  THE  DESERT 

"They  's  a  flask  in  the  pocket  o*  that  coat,"  he 
said.  "Take  a  pull ;  it  '11  brace  you  up." 

"I  don't  want  it,"  Barker  snarled.  "It  chokes 
me  more." 

He  had  drawn  the  coat  about  him,  the  sleeves 
tied  across  his  chest. 

"And  Westcott  went  back  on  me  this  time, 
too."  He  took  up  the  pitiful  tale  again.  "He 
could  n't  be  satisfied,  the  devil,  with  what  he  'd 
done.  He  had  to  do  it  over.  But  what  for? 
What  for  ?  I  say  ?  I  never  did  him  dirt." 

The  deputy  gave  a  start  of  surprise. 

"Why  Westcott  got—"  he  began,  then  pity 
kept  him  silent.  If  Barker  had  not  guessed  he 
would  not  tell  him. 

"Westcott  .  .  .  hell!"  He  spat  savagely  out 
upon  the  desert,  shaking  his  head  with  pity,  as  he 
glanced  again  at  the  huddled  figure. 

"Westcott  's  a  damned  side-winder,"  he  mut- 
tered. 

They  were  descending  into  an  arroyo,  once  the 
bed  of  a  creek;  dry,  now,  for  more  than  a  year. 
The  road  crossed  it,  here. 

"We  're  going  to  get  our  weather,  quick,"  the 
deputy  said,  as  he  noticed  that  the  bottom  of  the 
arroyo  held  tiny  pools  of  water. 

Even  as  he  spoke  a  little  stream  came  trickling 
down. 

25 


THE  WELL  IN  THE  DESERT 

"It 's  us  for  the  level !  Quick !"  he  shouted,  urg- 
ing the  bay. 

In  an  instant  darkness  was  upon  them.  A  sud- 
den flash  of  steely  blue  rent  the  sky ;  almost  with  it 
a  quick  roll  of  thunder  was  all  about  them  and  a 
bellowing  rush  of  water  came  tearing  along  the 
arroyo. 

The  bay  colt  squealed  with  terror,  plunging 
sidewise,  heedless  of  whip  and  voice.  The  deputy 
tried  to  turn  him  back  to  where  the  bank  sloped, 
but  already  they  were  sweeping  along  with  the 
torrent. 

"A  cloud-burst,"  Arnold  shrieked,  and  with  the 
words  he  was  wrested  from  his  seat. 

The  shafts  of  the  light  vehicle  snapped  short  at 
the  gear.  The  colt,  plunging,  open-mouthed,  was 
hurled  forward  in  a  fearful  somersault,  and  went 
under,  just  as  the  wagon  and  its  remaining  occu- 
pant rolled  over  and  over,  as  a  boulder  might  roll, 
in  the  churn  of  maddened  water. 


IT  was  far  into  the  night  when,  amid  a  matted 
drift,  half  way  up  one  bank  of  the  arroyo,  some- 
thing stirred,  faintly.  Caught  in  a  web  of  debris, 
and  a  tangle  of  mesquite  roots  that  thrust  far  out 
from  the  soil,  a  man  strove  feebly  to  disentangle 
his  head  from  a  smother  of  something  that  en- 

26 


THE  WELL  IN  THE  DESERT 

wrapped  it.  When  at  last  he  partly  succeeded  he 
looked  up  at  the  calm  stars,  lamping  the  sky  in 
solemn  splendor.  Below  him  he  could  still  hear 
the  rush  of  water,  but  above  all  was  peaceful. 

Long  he  lay,  more  dead  than  alive,  trying  to  re- 
member what  had  happened.  By  the  bright  star- 
light he  managed  to  make  out  that  the  body  of  the 
light  wagon  had  caught  upon  an  out-thrust  web  of 
mesquite  roots.  He  was  lying  on  his  side  in  the 
wagon  box,  one  arm  thrust,  to  the  shoulder, 
through  something  that  he  could  not  see.  About 
his  neck  and  head  was  a  tangle  of  cloth  which  he 
made  out  to  be  the  deputy's  coat,  and  a  long  thong 
of  leather,  probably  one  of  the  harness  reins. 
This  was  wound,  as  well,  about  what  remained  of 
one  of  the  seat  braces. 

Slowly,  by  agonizing  degrees,  the  man  began  to 
work  himself  loose  from  the  tangle.  Then  he  dis- 
covered that  the  thing  binding  his  shoulder  was 
the  strap  of  a  horse's  nose-bag,  and  the  bag  itself. 
It  was  caught  over  a  long,  splintered  fragment  of 
the  reach,  which  had  broken  through  the  bottom 
of  the  wagon-box.  The  bag  seemed  to  be  about 
half  full  of  oats. 

Inch  by  inch  he  cleared  himself,  and  laying  hold 
upon  the  mesquite  roots,  rose  slowly,  until  he  stood 
up.  Every  movement  was  pain,  but  he  persisted 
doggedly,  climbing  little  by  little  up  the  bank, 

27 


THE  WELL  IN  THE  DESERT 

clinging  now  to  a  root  of  mesquite,  now  to  a  point 
of  rock,  pausing  for  breath,  or  to  ease  the  strain 
upon  his  tortured  muscles.  At  last  he  grasped  the 
trunk  of  a  mesquite  and  dragged  himself  out  upon 
the  desert,  where  he  fell  helpless  upon  the  sand. 


28 


CHAPTER  III 

THE  shadowy  bulk  of  distant  mountains 
changed  to  pale  blue  as  the  purple  of  night 
slowly  lightened.  The  stars  faded,  one  by  one, 
and  a  spectral  moon  slipped  wearily  down  the  sky. 
Beyond  the  scant  mesquite  fringing  the  arroyo 
the  desert  lay  still  and  gray,  like  a  leaden  sea. 

The  man  woke,  and  moved  slightly,  groaning 
as  his  wrenched  and  stiffened  body  protested. 
Consciousness  strengthened,  and  he  struggled  to 
his  knees  to  stare  about  him.  The  chill  of  early 
morning  had  him  by  the  bones,  and  he  shook  in 
its  grip.  After  a  little  he  got  to  his  feet  and  tried, 
painfully,  to  swing  his  arms. 

Away  westward  a  subtle  hint  of  color  crept 
across  the  pale  sky,  heralding  a  coming  radiance  in 
the  east ;  but  it  brought  no  sense  of  comfort. 

"There  's  no  one  left  alive  but  me,"  the  man 
whispered,  as  his  gaze  took  in  the  awful  solitude. 
"No  one  but  me,  Gabriel  Card !" 

The  sound  of  that  name,  spoken  all  uncon- 
29 


THE  WELL  IN  THE  DESERT 

sciously,  made  him  start,  and  look  furtively  about. 
The  loneliness  of  the  plain  had  betrayed  his  jeal- 
ously guarded  secret.  Then  his  mood  changed. 

"I  've  a  right  to  die  with  it,  at  least,"  he  mut- 
tered. "They  can't  steal  that  from  me.  Barker  's 
dead,  already.  Gabriel  Card  goes  next.  Hear  that, 
Gabriel?  You  go  next.  Y-a-a-h.  .  .  .  God!" 

A  sudden  agony  of  pain  shook  him  as  he  began 
to  cough.  Every  muscle  in  his  body  was  sore. 
Then,  as  the  racking  grew  less,  he  stood  trans- 
fixed, staring  across  the  desert. 

A  crimson  glow  from  the  coming  sunrise  flushed 
far  across  the  eastern  sky,  and  coming  toward 
him,  touched  by  its  glory,  was  a  figure  that  his 
astonished  brain  sought  to  define. 

It  was  no  mirage.  He  knew  the  marks  of  that 
supreme  cheat  of  the  desert.  This  was  no  trick  of 
refraction  or  of  reflection.  He  saw,  as  a  man 
sees,  this  creature  silently,  steadily  drawing  near. 

It  was  a  strangely  familiar  shape ; vague,  uncouth, 
incredible,  it  seemed ;  yet  he  recognized  it.  He  rec- 
ognized the  slender,  shuffling  legs,  the  swinging 
gait,  the  mis-shapen  body,  the  ungainly,  crooked 
neck  and  high  held  head ;  but  why,  in  the  name  of 
reason,  should  a  camel  be  coming  to  him,  out  of 
nowhere  ? 

Nearer  and  nearer  the  creature  drew,  the  un- 
couth form  now  a  wonder  of  azure  and  crimson, 

30 


THE  WELL  IN  THE  DESERT 

as  the  light  became  stronger,  and  still  the  man 
gazed,  his  bewildered  mind  refusing  to  accept  the 
testimony  of  his  eyes. 

He  was  filled  with  awe.  It  was  true,  then,  what 
old  prospectors  had  lately  declared,  that  this  soli- 
tary wanderer  was  still  in  the  desert,  sole  survivor 
of  the  old  Jeff  Davis  caravan. l  Old  man  Dickson, 
and  again  young  Bennett,  swore  they  had  seen  it. 
Dickson  told,  indeed,  of  having  had  the  creature 
about  his  camp  for  nearly  a  week. 

On  came  the  camel,  looking  neither  to  the  right 
nor  the  left,  its  shuffling  stride  getting  it  over  the 
ground  with  curious  swiftness.  When  it  was  very 
near  it  stopped,  under  the  mesquites,  and  seemed 
to  wait  for  the  man  to  approach.  Recovered 
somewhat  from  his  amazement,  Gabriel  Card  drew 
nearer  and,  reaching  out  a  tentative  hand,  touched 
the  creature's  neck. 

The  animal  neither  started  nor  flinched,  but  be- 

1When  Jefferson  Davis  was  Secretary  of  War  he  imported  a 
caravan  of  camels  into  the  desert,  to  carry  supplies  for  the  army. 
The  creatures  stampeded  the  army  mules,  whenever  they  appeared, 
and  the  soldiers  took  to  shooting  them,  on  the  sly.  In  time  so 
many  were  killed  that  not  enough  remained  to  form  a  caravan,  so 
the  survivors  were  turned  loose  in  the  desert.  Here  they  were 
hunted  by  tourists,  who  shot  them  for  "  sport,"  until  it  was  sup- 
posed that  all  had  perished.  It  is  known  now,  however,  that  one, 
at  least,  survives.  This  solitary  one  still  wanders  about  the  desert, 
and  the  writer  knows  of  more  than  one  prospector  who  has  encount- 
ered it,  very  recently. 

31 


THE  WELL  IN  THE  DESERT 

gan  cropping  beans  from  the  mesquite  trees,  quite 
as  if  the  man  were  not  there.  Gard,  noting  the 
action,  became  aware  that  he  was  himself  faint 
with  hunger. 

On  the  desert,  where  he  had  thrown  it  in  rising, 
lay  the  deputy's  coat,  and  tangled  with  it  Gard 
found  his  own  canteen.  He  took  this  as  a  good 
omen. 

"I  may  need  you,  yet,"  he  whispered,  as  he  took 
it  up. 

In  one  pocket  of  the  coat  was  a  nickle  watch, 
made  fast  by  a  leather  thong,  to  a  buttonhole. 
Another  contained  the  deputy's  pipe,  some  loose 
tobacco,  and  a  water-tight  box,  in  which  were 
fourteen  matches.  Gard  counted  them,  carefully. 

He  turned  to  the  other  side-pocket,  with  but 
faint  hope  that  the  flask  which  he  had  scorned  the 
day  before  would  be  in  it  yet. 

It  was  there,  however,  and  beside  it,  in  a  greasy, 
crushed  packet,  a  big  beef  sandwich.  The  deputy, 
accustomed  to  provide  against  long  rides  in  the 
desert,  had  secured  this  before  leaving  the  hotel. 

The  man  ate  it  eagerly,  and  took  a  swallow  from 
the  flask.  The  food,  and  the  fiery  liquor,  warmed 
him,  and  revived  his  courage. 

In  the  coat's  inner  pocket  were  papers,  a  worn 
memorandum-book,  an  envelop  covered  with 
figures,  another,  longer  one,  containing  a  docu- 

32 


THE  WELL  IN  THE  DESERT 

ment.  As  Card  turned  them  over  a  postal-card 
fell  to  the  desert. 

He  picked  it  up.  On  the  back  were  a  picture, 
and  some  printing.  The  man  read  the  latter 
through  before  he  realized  what  the  card  was  for. 
It  published  his  escape  from  jail,  and  the  fact  that 
five  hundred  dollars  reward  was  offered  for  his 
capture. 

Now  he  remembered  the  deputy's  unfinished 
sentence,  and  knew  why  Westcott  had  betrayed 
him. 

Westcott  had  got  that  reward!  He  had  sold 
him  back  to  death  as  he  had  sold  him  before. 
God !  Why  could  he  not  have  had  his  fingers  upon 
that  lying  throat  just  once  ?  He  would  have  found 
strength  for  the  job  that  needed  doing! 

He  stretched  forth  his  wasted,  jail-bleachecl 
hands,  and  regarded  them,  snarling.  Then  he 
raised  them,  shaking  them  at  the  sky. 

"I  '11  live  to  do  it  yet!  Do  you  hear?"  he 
shrieked,  "I  say  I  will  live !" 

He  beat  the  desert  air  with  his  clenched  fists. 

"God — devil — whatever  you  are  that  runs  this 
hellish  world,  you  've  got  to  let  me  live.  I  '11 
make  that  infernal  side-winder  wish  he  could  hide 
in  hell's  mouth,  before  I  die !" 

The  torrent  of  his  rage  was  stemmed  by  a 
vicious  attack  of  that  racking  cough.  It  tore  his 

a  33 


THE  WELL  IN  THE  DESERT 

chest,  and  flecked  his  lips  with  blood.  When  it 
was  over  he  lay  upon  the  sand  for  a  long  time, 
sobbing  the  dry,  anguished  sobs  of  a  man's  help- 
less woe. 

The  sun,  rising  above  the  distant  mountains, 
shone  red  upon  him.  The  camel  left  the  mes- 
quite's  thin  shade  for  the  warmer  light  and  the 
pad  of  its  soft  feet  aroused  Card.  He  must  not  let 
the  creature  get  away. 

He  rose,  painfully,  and  went  to  it,  considering 
the  brute  carefully.  A  plan  was  dawning  in  his 
brain.  He  took  the  strap  that  served  him  for  a 
belt,  and  buckled  it  around  the  camel's  neck.  The 
animal  followed  him,  docile  as  a  sheep,  when  he 
led  it  back  to  the  mesquite.  Then  he  bethought 
himself  of  the  oats,  in  the  horse's  bag,  below. 

Going  to  the  edge  of  the  arroyo  he  could  see  it 
in  the  wreck  of  the  road-wagon,  and  he  made  his 
way  painfully  down  to  it.  As  he  was  clambering 
back  he  noticed  that  the  back  spring  of  the  light 
rig  still  clung  to  it  by  a  single  bolt.  A  slight 
wrench  brought  it  away,  and  he  secured  it,  with  a 
vague  feeling  that  it  might  prove  useful. 

The  full  horror  of  his  position  was  becoming 
clear  to  him.  He  was  alone  in  the  desert,  without 
food  or  weapons.  He  put  the  thought  away,  sum- 
moning all  his  faculties  for  the  need  of  the  mo- 
ment. 

34 


THE  WELL  IN  THE  DESERT 

The  camel  was  indifferent  to  the  oats,  turning 
from  them  to  the  mesquite,  after  a  tentative  inves- 
tigation. With  his  belt  and  the  harness  rein,  Card 
proceeded  to  fashion  a  sort  of  rude  hackamore, 
which  he  put  over  the  creature's  head.  The  great 
beast,  as  soon  as  it  was  adjusted,  settled  itself, 
as  by  instinct,  in  an  attitude  of  waiting,  while 
Card  proceeded  to  fill  his  canteen  and  to  gather 
quantities  of  mesquite  beans,  bestowing  them 
in  the  feed  bag,  and  in  the  pockets  of  Arnold's 
coat. 

He  threw  the  coat  across  the  camel's  back,  the 
buggy-spring  and  the  bag  secured  by  its  knotted 
sleeves.  Then  he  took  the  leading  strap  in  his 
hand,  spoke  to  the  animal,  and  they  moved  out 
upon  the  desert. 

Gard  had  no  idea  in  which  direction  it  was  best 
to  go,  but  he  argued  that  the  camel  knew  the  plain, 
and  its  fastnesses.  For  himself,  he  had  but  one 
thought— to  hide,  to  rest,  to  gather  strength  for 
vengeance.  At  that  thought  he  stifled  the  cough 
that  rose  in  his  throat. 

Once  they  were  started  he  let  the  strap  hang 
loose  and  gradually  fell  behind.  The  camel  went 
forward  a  few  paces  in  the  direction  ahead  of 
them,  but  feeling  no  guidance,  gradually  deflected 
its  course  toward  the  west.  Gard  followed  every 
movement  eagerly,  until  presently  they  were  going 

35 


THE  WELL  IN  THE  DESERT 

forward  at  a  steady  pace,  as  travelers  with  a  defi- 
nite aim. 

The  sun  was  well  up  now,  and  its  beams  warmed 
the  man's  chilled,  sore  body.  The  desert  was  no 
longer  gray,  but  a  glowing  yellow.  Even  the  air 
was  warm-hued,  suffusing  the  landscape  with  a 
roseate  loveliness  that  yet  seemed  less  of  life  than 
of  death. 

Everywhere  were  the  desert  growths,  travesties 
of  vegetation,  twisted,  grotesque,  ghostly  gray  and 
pale  green  in  hues.  A  profound  stillness,  insistent, 
oppressive,  was  upon  everything.  The  yellow 
sand,  the  glowing  air,  the  cloudless  dome  of  the 
sky,  the  far-off  mountains,  all  seemed  to  soak  up 
sound.  The  world  lay  hushed  in  fierce,  tense  quiet, 
as  though  waiting  the  appearance  of  some  savage 
portent. 

The  camel  did  not  hasten.  Card,  walking  be- 
side it,  had  a  feeling  that  the  creature  was  very 
old.  Its  eyes  were  bright,  its  coat  silky  and  fine, 
but  deep  under  the  hair's  soft  luxuriance  the  man's 
fingers  felt  the  skin,  wrinkled  and  folded  over 
shrunken  muscles. 

But  there  was  neither  feebleness  nor  hesitation 
in  the  forward  progress  of  the  desert  pilot.  It 
moved  forward  with  a  sort  of  inexorableness,  its 
padded  feet  making  no  sound  on  the  hard  sand,  its 
gaze  bent  steadily  ahead,  its  inscrutable  visage 

36 


THE  WELL  IN  THE  DESERT 

wearing  ever,  a  look  of  centuries-old  scorn  for  all 
things  made. 

They  passed  a  huge  bull-snake  sunning  upon  a 
rock,  and  here  and  there  a  silent  bird  flitted  to  or 
from  its  home  in  some  thorn-guarded  cholla.  Once 
a  coyote  tossed  lightly  across  their  vision,  a  blown 
gray  feather  along  the  horizon,  but  no  other  signs 
of  animal  life  stirred  the  death-like  plain. 

The  sand  grew  warmer  in  the  sun's  rays,  till 
permeating  heat  radiated  from  it  and  hung  over  it 
everywhere,  a  palpable,  shimmering  mist  of  laven- 
der and  gold,  between  earth  and  air.  By  mid- 
forenoon  the  sun's  rays  were  oppressive,  and  they 
halted  in  the  shadow  of  a  giant  suhuaro. 

The  camel,  when  the  man  released  the  leading- 
strap,  lowered  itself  slowly  to  rest,  doubling  down 
its  legs  like  the  shutting  of  a  jack-knife,  and  set- 
tling upon  the  sand  with  the  curious,  sighing  grunt 
of  old  age. 

Gard,  in  the  meantime,  set  about  the  preparation 
of  a  meal.  He  shelled  a  handful  of  tree-beans  and 
crushed  them  between  two  stones,  mixing  them 
with  water  from  his  canteen  into  a  sort  of  paste, 
which  he  ate.  The  suhuaro's  fruit  was  yet  hang- 
ing upon  its  great  branches,  dried,  somewhat,  by 
the  autumn  sun  and  wind,  but  palatable  and  nutri- 
tious still.  Gard  found  a  long  pole,  once  part  of 
the  frame  of  another  giant  cactus,  and  with  this 

37 


THE  WELL  IN  THE  DESERT 

succeeded  in  knocking  down  some  of  the  fig-like 
growths. 

When  he  had  eaten  them  he  stretched  himself 
upon  the  sand,  filled  the  deputy's  pipe,  and  lighted 
it  with  one  of  the  precious  matches.  The  un- 
wonted luxury  brought  him  comfort,  and  ease  of 
mind.  He  smoked  slowly,  making  the  most  of  it 
in  delicious  relaxation,  his  head  in  the  shade,  his 
weary,  sick  body  basking  in  the  heat  of  desert  and 
sunlight. 

Lying  thus  there  presently  spread  out  before  his 
eyes  the  sudden  vision  of  a  great,  island-dotted  sea. 
The  surface  of  the  water  dimpled  and  sparkled  in 
the  sun ;  the  islands  shone  jewel-like  with  verdure, 
an  exquisite  suggestion  of  rich  color  was  over 
it  all. 

His  eye  was  not  deceived,  though  his  mind  half 
accepted  the  vision.  He  knew  that  it  was  a  mirage, 
but  he  lay  for  a  long  time  watching  its  changing 
beauty,  a  half -amused  sense  of  superiority  to  illu- 
sion ministering  pleasantly  to  his  pride.  The 
scene  was  so  very  like  what  it  seemed  to  be. 

Suddenly,  from  the  surface  of  the  sea  rose  a 
monstrous  thing,  huge,  formidable,  portentous,  and 
endowed  with  motion.  Card  turned  upon  his  side, 
with  a  gasp.  The  mystic  sea  still  wavered  in  the 
distance,  but  the  shape  was  no  part  of  it. 

An  instant  he  studied  it,  then  sank  back  with  a 

38 


THE  WELL  IN  THE  DESERT 

sigh  of  relief.  The  apparition,  upon  scrutiny,  had 
resolved  itself  into  a  little  wild  burro,  perhaps  a 
quarter  of  a  mile  away,  passing  across  the  face 
of  the  mirage.  It  was  such  a  germane  little  shape, 
this  familiar  of  the  desert,  that  he  was  cheered  by 
the  sight  of  it.  The  next  instant  he  noted  a 
tarantula,  hairy,  vicious,  glaring  at  him  from  a 
tiny  eminence  of  sand. 

Acting  upon  impulse,  Card  hurled  at  it  the 
rounded  stone  with  which  he  had  crushed  the 
mesquite  beans.  The  missile  struck  the  sand  close 
beside  the  tarantula  and  the  huge  spider  sprang 
upon  it  in  a  frenzy  of  stupid  ferocity.  The  man 
laughed  silently,  a  laugh  not  good  to  see. 

A  shadow  floated  across  the  plain,  and  then  an- 
other. The  man  glanced  upward,  to  see  three  or 
four  great  black  forms  circling  against  the  blue. 

"You  would,  eh?"  he  shrieked,  springing  to  his 
feet.  "Yah !  Not  yet,  you  devils !  I  'm  not  dead 
yet!" 

He  shook  his  fist  skyward  at  the  huge,  waiting 
birds. 

"I  'm  alive  yet !"  he  yelled.  "You  don't  get  me 
yet ;  not  till  I  've  had  my  meat." 

The  cough  seized  him,  and  ere  it  let  go  its  hold 
the  disappointed  vultures,  with  never  a  stroke  of 
their  wide  wings,  faded  into  the  skyey  depths.  , 

But  Card  had  no  heart  to  linger  further.    The 

39 


THE  WELL  IN  THE  DESERT 

sight  of  the  desert  scavengers  had  shaken  him 
sorely,  he  hastened  to  rouse  his  strange  fellow, 
and  soon  the  pair  were  again  threading  that  weary 
way  from  nowhere  to  the  unknown. 

All  day  they  had  moved  steadily  mountainward, 
and  now  they  began  to  draw  nearer  the  range  that 
ever  since  dawn  had  reared  a  jagged  line  along  the 
horizon.  Card  had  not  known  whether  they  would 
reach  the  mountains  that  day.  One  does  not  predi- 
cate distances  in  the  desert.  They  may  be  long, 
or  short;  the  lying  air  gives  no  clue. 

But  as  the  afternoon  shadows  were  turning  to 
mauve  and  blue,  what  had  for  hours  looked  like 
sloping  foothills,  leading  gently  toward  further 
heights,  suddenly  reared  itself  before  them  in  a 
long  stretch  of  high,  perpendicular  wall. 

Straight  toward  it  the  camel  went,  never  paus- 
ing or  looking  around  at  the  man  beside  him,  and 
when  another  forward  step  would  have  found  their 
progress  barred,  the  creature  swerved  to  the  left,  to 
enter  a  narrow  pass  that  appeared  as  if  by  magic 
in  the  seemingly  unbroken  wall. 

Now  the  way  wound  upward  along  a  dry  wash, 
climbing  almost  imperceptibly,  at  first,  growing 
steeper,  by  degrees,  though  at  no  time  a  sharp  as- 
cent. The  shadows  closed  in  upon  them,  and  the 
air  grew  chill,  but  still  the  camel  walked  on,  and 

40 


THE  WELL  IN  THE  DESERT 

beside  him,  clinging,  now,  in  his  weakness,  to  the 
animal's  long  hair,  toiled  the  man. 

More  and  more  often  he  paused  for  breath,  his 
lungs  tortured  by  the  pace.  He  was  faint  with 
fatigue,  chilled  by  the  shadow-cooled  air,  but  a 
drink  from  the  flask  gave  him  brief  strength,  and 
he  struggled  on. 

An  hour,  and  they  were  well  within  the  moun- 
tains. The  way  wound  now  among  greasewood 
and  scrub  oaks,  with  only  here  and  there  a  cactus. 
The  chaparral  drew  dense,  and  Card  could  hear 
birds  calling  in  its  depths. 

The  trail  began  to  widen,  and  patches  of  coarse 
grasses  cropped  out,  here  and  there.  The  altitude 
was  not  particularly  great,  but  it  was  beginning  to 
tell  upon  the  man  when  his  strange  guide  halted  in 
a  little  open  glade,  where  the  wash  ended  abruptly. 

Night  was  falling,  and  Card  could  make  out 
very  little  save  that  the  forest  growth  closed  in 
the  glade  on  all  sides.  Overhead  he  could  just 
get  a  glimpse  of  the  purpling  sky,  where  the  stars 
were  already  out.  Off  at  one  side  he  could  see 
these  reflected  in  water,  and  he  could  hear,  as  well, 
the  gentle  splash  of  a  stream. 

The  camel  stood  beside  him,  wearily  patient 
until,  lifting  a  hand,  he  removed  its  load  and 
slipped  the  hackamore  from  its  head.  Freed,  the 

41 


THE  WELL  IN  THE  DESERT 

creature  turned  away,  and  presently  Gard  heard 
him  drinking,  not  far  off. 

He  followed  the  sound  until  he  reached  water, 
and  passing  beyond  the  camel,  knelt  to  drink  his 
fill  from  a  clear,  cold  fountain. 

Later  he  gathered  such  dry  sticks  as  he  could 
find  and  kindled  a  fire,  as  much  for  protection  as 
for  warmth.  He  was  too  weary  to  think  of  food, 
but  crouched  before  the  cheering  blaze,  alternately 
dozing,  and  rousing  to  feed  the  flame. 

As  often  as  he  did  the  latter  he  could  see,  in  the 
darkness  beyond  the  blaze,  the  gleaming  eyes  of 
small  forest-prowlers,  come  to  stare  in  wonder  at 
the  strange  thing  by  the  pool.  Nothing  molested 
him,  however,  and  toward  dawn  he  fell  into  a 
profound,  restful  slumber. 


CHAPTER  IV 

THE  morning  light  did  not  confirm  Card's  im- 
pression that  he  was  in  the  deep  woods.  Be- 
yond the  thin  region  of  growth  fed  by  the  pool  the 
little  valley  into  which  he  had  been  led  lay  sandy 
and  cactus-grown,  like  the  desert.  The  stream  that 
should  have  watered  it,  that  had  probably,  at  some 
time,  made  its  way  down  the  dry  wash  which  he 
had  traversed,  now  found  some  underground  out- 
let, and  was  swallowed  up  by  the  vampire  plain 
below. 

Above  the  glade  was  a  steep,  rockbound  ravine, 
down  which  the  stream  still  flowed.  The  pool 
seemed  to  be  its  last  stand  against  the  desert. 
Card,  tentatively  exploring  the  lower  end  of  this 
ravine  for  fuel,  found  a  few  blackberries,  drying 
upon  the  bushes,  and  ate  them,  eagerly,  with  appe- 
tite still  unsated  by  his  breakfast  of  mesquite  beans. 
The  mesquite  grew  here,  too;  with  manzanita  and 
scrub  oak,  arrow  weed,  and  black  willow. 

The  man's  chief  sensation  was  a  vague  surprise 

43 


THE  WELL  IN  THE  DESERT 

at  finding  himself  still  alive.  He  was  too  sick — 
too  weak— after  his  exertion  and  his  rages  of  the 
day  before,  to  consider  the  problem  of  keeping 
himself  alive.  He  was  chilled  to  the  marrow,  and 
yearned  like  a  fire-worshipper  toward  the  warmth 
of  his  camp-glow.  He  tended  the  fire  carefully. 
He  dared  not  let  it  go  out;  for  that  meant  the 
sacrifice  of  another  precious  match. 

The  elemental  appetite  awoke  when,  stooping 
to  drink  from  the  pool,  he  saw  fish  darting  about 
in  its  clear  depths.  He  worked  with  the  cunning  of 
a  pre-historic  man  until,  by  means  of  the  feed-bag, 
which  he  emptied  of  its  contents,  he  succeeded  in 
catching  two  of  these. 

A  long  thorn  of  palo-verde  served  him  for  a 
knife  in  dressing  them,  and  he  cooked  them  in  the 
earth,  with  hot  stones,  laying  each  fish  between  the 
split  halves  of  broad  lobes  of  the  prickly  pear. 
They  were  insipid,  and  full  of  bones,  but  they 
served  to  satisfy  his  hunger. 

He  decided  to  keep  a  record  of  the  days  that 
he  should  spend  in  this  place;  by  sticking  palo- 
verde  thorns  into  an  out-reaching  branch  of  wil- 
low, near  the  pool.  He  would  stick  in  a  thorn  for 
each  day.  He  cursed  the  first  one,  as  he  thrust 
it  against  the  wood;  because  he  felt  powerless  to 
do  anything  else. 

Following,  half  sullenly,  a  mere  human  instinct 

44 


THE  WELL  IN  THE  DESERT 

to  be  busy  about  something,  he  set  about  making 
a  knife  from  the  smallest  plate  of  the  buggy- 
spring.  He  heated  it  in  his  fire  till  the  paint  came 
off,  broke  it  in  two  and  spent  the  day  working  one 
thin  end  down  to  a  cutting  edge,  on  a  big,  rough 
boulder.  By  night  he  had  six  inches  of  blade  with 
one  rounded,  sharp  end. 

He  used  this,  next  day,  to  cut  ocotilla-stalks,  to 
make  a  bed,  scraping  away  the  thorns  with  sharp 
stones.  He  worked  all  day ;  less  because  he  wanted 
a  bed  than  because  he  dimly  realized  that  sanity 
lay  in  occupation.  That  night  he  set  a  snare,  and 
before  morning  managed  to  catch  a  cotton-tail 
which  he  dressed  and  roasted  for  his  breakfast. 

He  was  getting  over  the  feeling  of  being  hunted. 
They  would  not  search  for  him  now,  he  reasoned ; 
they  must  feel  satisfied  that  he  had  died  in  the 
cloud-burst.  He  bathed  in  the  pool  that  day, 
when  the  sun  was  high,  and  set  about  constructing 
a  fireplace  against  the  big  boulder.  This  would 
make  fire-keeping  easier. 

The  days  slipped  into  weeks.  Little  by  little  the 
man  was  adapting  himself  to  his  environment.  He 
learned  to  dry  the  mesquite  beans  and  grind  them 
between  stones  into  a  coarse  flour.  This  he  made 
into  little  cakes,  which  he  baked  upon  a  flat  stone 
before  the  fire.  Later,  he  turned  over  a  patch  of 
earth,  watered  it,  and  sowed  it  with  the  oats  he 

45 


THE  WELL  IN  THE  DESERT 

had  saved  from  the  storm.  Now,  however,  his 
food  was  the  mesquite,  the  prickly  pear,  the  century 
plant,  and  the  fish  and  small  game  that  he  managed 
to  catch. 

As  he  grew  stronger  he  fashioned  himself  a 
bow  of  oak,  shaping  and  smoothing  it  with  his 
rough  knife,  and  stringing  it  with  fibres  from  the 
century  plant.  His  shafts  were  those  of  the  desert 
Indians,  the  arrow  weeds  growing  close  at  hand, 
and  he  tipped  them  with  the  cruel,  steel-hard  dag- 
ger-points of  the  yucca. 

With  this  primitive  weapon  he  gradually  grew 
skilful;  and  at  last  he  shot  a  buck,  as  the  creature 
came  down  to  the  pool  one  night,  to  drink.  He 
dried  the  meat,  and  used  the  skin,  when  he  had 
made  it  ready,  as  a  covering  for  his  bed. 

Twice,  during  the  winter,  the  camel  came  back 
to  the  pool.  The  creature  went  as  it  came,  silent, 
inscrutable.  Whither  it  went  Gard  did  not  know ; 
the  pool  was  evidently  one  of  its  ports  of  call  while 
going  to  and  fro  on  the  mysterious  business  of 
being  a  camel.  It  accepted  the  man  as  a  matter  of 
course,  and  left  him,  when  ready,  with  the  indif- 
ference of  fate,  though  Gard  could  have  begged 
it  on  bended  knees,  to  remain. 

He  was  horribly  lonely,  with  nothing  but  his 
hate,  and  a  sick  longing  for  vengeance  upon  life,  to 
bear  him  company.  There  were  days  when  he 

46 


THE  WELL  IN  THE  DESERT 

cursed  the  chance  that  had  kept  his  worthless  hulk 
alive,  while  sending  Arnold,  in  all  his  strength, 
down  to  death.  He  had  no  doubt  but  that  the 
deputy  had  perished.  Nothing  could  ever  have 
come,  alive,  through  the  rush  of  water  into  which 
he  had  been  flung. 

The  weeks  became  months.  His  oats  were  com- 
ing up,  a  little  patch  of  cool  green  on  the  yellow 
sand,  and  he  had  occupation  to  fend  the  field  from 
the  small  desert  creatures  that  coveted  it.  He  also 
worked  at  times  at  making  various  utensils  of  the 
red  clay  that  he  found  in  the  valley,  baking  them 
in  a  rude  kiln  of  his  own  fashioning. 

He  came  by  degrees  to  love  this  work,  and  took 
great  pleasure  in  it.  He  even  tried  to  contrive  a 
potter's  wheel,  but  was  balked  by  lack  of  material. 
He  had  to  content  himself,  therefore,  with  model- 
ing the  clay  into  such  shapes  of  use  and  beauty  as 
his  untaught  hands  could  achieve.  In  time  he  came 
to  ornament  his  work  as  well,  graving  designs  on 
the  edges  of  his  plates  and  bowls.  The  camel's 
counterfeit  presentment  figured  on  one  or  two  of 
the  larger  pieces,  and  upon  the  others,  as  the  im- 
pulse prompted,  he  put  inscriptions,  until  the 
homely  articles  of  his  daily  use  came  to  be  a  sort 
of  commentary,  seen  by  no  eyes  save  his  own,  of 
his  moods,  and  the  longing  for  their  expression. 

He  wrote  thus  upon  other  things  as  well.    Lack- 

47 


THE  WELL  IN  THE  DESERT 

ing  paper  or  implements  charcoal  and  sharpened 
sticks  became  his  tools;  the  rocks  and  trees;  his 
broad  earthen  hearth;  the  plastic  clay;  even  the 
yellow  sand  of  the  desert,  his  tablets,  and  little  by 
little  all  these  became  eloquent  of  his  lonely 
thoughts. 

He  put  them  down  upon  whatever  served,  for 
the  mere  comfort  of  seeing  them ;  scraps  of  lessons 
conned  in  the  old  brick  school-house;  sums;  frag- 
ments of  the  multiplication  table;  roughly  drawn 
maps  and  sketches  of  boyhood  scenes;  lines  from 
half -remembered  poems  and  hymns;  familiar  Bible 
verses  that  his  mother  had  taught  him.  They  came 
back  to  him  bit  by  bit,  in  his  solitude.  And  one 
and  all  his  soul  found  them  camps  by  the  way  on 
its  long  journey  up  from  despair. 

From  one  of  his  excursions  into  the  valley  he 
brought  home  the  empty  shell  of  a  desert  turtle. 
This  he  split,  and  fashioned  the  upper  half  into  a 
bowl  to  contain  the  palo-verde  thorns  of  his  record. 
They  were  already  crowding  the  willow  branch, 
and  but  for  them  he  could  scarcely  have  realized  the 
passage  of  days. 

There  were  a  hundred  and  forty-seven  thorns 
on  the  day  that  he  transferred  them  to  the  new 
receptacle.  Gard  could  not  be  sure  that  he  had 
one  for  each  day  in  the  desert,  but  he  knew  that 
each  one  there  actually  represented  a  day. 

48 


THE  WELL  IN  THE  DESERT 

"I  Ve  had  every  one  of  that  lot,"  he  told  him- 
self, talking  aloud,  as  a  solitary,  man  gets  to  do. 
"Had  'em  in  the  open,  in  spite  of  the  law 
sharks." 

He  still  lived  from  day  to  day,  however,  despite 
his  vows,  and  his  threats  of  vengeance.  He  had 
known,  when  he  sought  Ashley  Westcott,  begging 
the  price  of  a  ticket  east,  that  he  was  a  doomed 
man. 

"It  's  all  borrowed  time,"  he  muttered,  shaking 
the  turtle-shell. 

His  face  darkened. 

"  T  ain't  either,"  he  cried.  "It 's  time  won  back. 
They  stole  it  from  me  down  there.  They  robbed 
me  of  three  years,  the  filthy  thieves!  What  's  a 
hundred  and  forty-seven  days  against  that  ?" 

He  remembered  an  occasion  when  to  get  away 
from  the  wood-pile  that  was  his  special  charge,  in 
his  boyhood,  he  had  heaped  a  scant  supply  of  split 
wood  over  a  pile  of  chunks  yet  untouched  by  the 
axe,  and  exhibiting  the  result  as  his  finished  task 
had  escaped  with  his  fellows  upon  some  expedition 
of  pleasure.  He  had  meant  to  return  in  time  to 
complete  his  work  before  the  cheat  should  be  dis- 
covered, but  he  forgot  it. 

His  father  had  first  thrashed  him  well  for  his 
wickedness,  then  lectured  him  tenderly  about  it. 
The  wicked,  he  had  told  him,  would  not  live  out 

4  49 


THE  WELL  IN  THE  DESERT 

half  their  days.  Card's  laugh  as  he  recalled  the 
words  was  more  nearly  a  snarl. 

"He  was  a  good  man  all  right,"  he  said,  "but  he 
did  n't  know  it  all ;  not  by  an  eternal  lot." 

He  tormented  himself  with  other  boyish  memo- 
ries :  the  broad  grassy  stretches  of  the  prairie  came 
up  before  him;  the  woods  that  neighbored  his 
father's  farm;  the  pleasant  fields,  and  occasional 
low  hills  that  had  seemed  to  him  so  high,  before 
he  had  seen  mountains ;  the  swimming-pool  where 
he  and  the  fellows  played  in  summer ;  the  skating- 
pond  where  they  raced  and  built  forts  and  fought 
mimic  battles  in  winter ;  the  red  brick  school-house 
at  "The  Corners" ;  the  white  church  at  "The  Cen- 
tre," where  he  had  gone  to  Sunday-school ;  the  little 
shed  chamber  with  its  creaking  stairs  that  his 
mother  had  climbed,  how  many  cold  nights !  to  see 
if  he  were  warmly  covered.  She  was  gone  from 
earth  now,  but  the  old  boyhood  places  were  left, 
and  he  yearned  for  them  all,  with  yearning  un- 
speakable. 

"I  thought  I  was  going  to  get  back  to  it,"  he 
groaned,  through  his  set  teeth.  "I  trusted  that 
poison-snake  to  help  me;  God!  If  I  could  get 
these  hands  on  him,  just  once !" 

But  the  quiet  of  his  hundred  and  forty-seven 
days,  and  the  balm  of  the  healing  air,  had  wrought 
within  him  more  than  he  knew.  His  excursions 

SO 


THE  WELL  IN  THE  DESERT 

afield  grew  longer,  day  by  day,  and  in  the  gray 
of  one  beautiful  morning  he  started  out  to  explore 
the  mountain. 

He  had  traversed  the  canon  before  now,  climb- 
ing over  rocks,  and  around  mighty  boulders 
washed  down  by  ancient  avalanches,  or  torn  from  ( 
above  by  titanic  storms,  until  he  came  to  where 
the  mountain  stream  took  a  leap  of  some  seventy 
feet,  and  the  sheer  face  of  the  cliff  barred  his  way. 
This  time,  however,  he  followed  the  canon's  edge, 
to  which  the  trees  clung  precariously,  sycamores, 
oaks,  and,  to  his  delight,  some  walnuts.  He 
marked  the  spot  where  they  grew,  as  a  place  to 
be  visited  in  the  nut  season. 

The  morning  was  far  spent  when  he  reached 
this  point,  so  he  lingered  to  rest,  to  eat  the  jerked 
venison  and  mesquite  bread  he  had  brought  with 
him.  Then  he  resumed  his  climb  until  he  was  well 
beyond  the  timber  growths  and  had  to  fight  his  way 
through  chaparral. 

He  crawled  among  this  on  hands  and  knees,  now 
and  then,  frightening  birds,  and  other  small  game, 
from  their  hiding-places,  and  at  last  came  out  upon 
the  rocky  open,  and  the  broad  spaces  where  the 
large  creatures  of  the  mountains  make  their  homes. 
He  noted  more  than  one  faint  trail  leading  over 
the  wastes,  and  now  and  again  he  caught  sight  of 
deer  in  the  distance. 

51 


THE  WELL  IN  THE  DESERT 

Higher  still  he  climbed,  into  the  regions  of  white 
sunlight,  until  the  cold,  pure  air  of  the  snowy 
ranges  blew  through  his  hair,  and  he  began  to  feel 
the  altitude.  In  spite  of  this  he  pressed  on,  and 
at  last  reached  a  ridge  where  grew  a  few  scattered 
heralds  of  the  great  pine  belt  above  him.  Here, 
quite  unexpectedly,  the  vast  waste  of  the  desert 
suddenly  met  his  gaze,  far,  far  below. 

There  was  a  strange,  horrible  unreality  about  it. 
The  far  gray  plain;  the  mountain's  bare,  brown 
bones ;  the  wind-distorted  trees ;  the  solemn,  snowy 
sierras,  even  the  blue  arch  of  the  sky,  seemed  but 
components  of  some  fearful  nightmare. 

"I  'm  not  asleep,"  he  muttered;  "and  it  's  no 
dream ;  I  Ve  died,  and  gone  to  hell !" 

The  bitterness  of  desolation  was  upon  him.  His 
very  soul  lay  bare  in  the  bright,  white  sunlight  of 
the  heights,  and  He  cowered,  like  a  child  afraid  of 
the  dark. 

As  he  stood  thus,  from  out  the  silence  a  soft, 
clear  whistle  rose  upon  the  air.  It  was  repeated, 
then  taken  up,  farther  away.  The  man  quivered 
as  though  the  sound  had  struck  him.  Then  his 
tense  muscles  relaxed;  he  saw  the  whistlers  to  be 
a  covey  of  quail,  moving  along  the  rocks  a  little 
below  him. 

They  came  nearer,  walking  in  single  file,  full  of 
curiosity  about  him,  alert,  speculative,  keeping  up 

52 


THE  WELL  IN  THE  DESERT 

a  murmur  of  little  ornithological  remarks  among 
themselves,  the  while.  The  gentle  fearlessness  of 
the  small,  pretty  creatures  filled  all  that  grim  place 
with  an  ineffable  grace.  A  sob  strained  at  the 
man's  throat. 

"Just  as  if  they  were  in  a  garden!"  he  whis- 
pered. 

Long  he  stood  watching  the  birds,  who  pres- 
ently, as  if  satisfied  that  no  harm  dwelt  in  him, 
scattered  about  the  rocky  waste  in  search  of  food. 
One  only  remained  on  watch,  guarding  the  flock 
from  a  little  eminence  where  he  stood  motionless 
save  for  his  pretty  crest,  which  the  wind  blew  from 
side  to  side.  Card  watched  him,  fairly  hushing  his 
own  breath  lest  he  alarm  the  small  sentinel,  who  in 
turn  regarded  him,  with  bright,  innocent  eyes. 

"To  think  of  it,"  the  man  murmured,  "the  little, 
little  things,  so  fearless,  up  here  in  this— this— 
secret — place — of — the — Most — High!" 

He  stopped,  in  vague  surprise  at  his  own  speech. 
He  had  not  meant  to  say  that,  but  from  some 
neglected  recess  of  his  boyhood's  memory  the 
words  had  sprung,  vital  with  meaning. 

"I  wish,"  he  finally  began,  after  a  long  pause, 
and  ceased  speaking  as  a  wave  of  sickening  despair 
swept  over  his  soul.  The  idleness  of  the  phrase 
mocked  him;  the  folly  of  wishing  anything,  help- 
less there  in  the  bitterness  of  desolation,  came 

53 


THE  WELL  IN  THE  DESERT 

home  to  him  with  cruel  force.  Then  the  ache  of 
his  spirit's  yearning  drew  his  clenched  hands  up 
toward  the  blue  vault. 

"I  wish,"  he  breathed,  his  heart  pounding,  his 
brain  awhirl  with  a  sudden  vision  of  the  infinite 
wonder  of  things,  "I  wish  that — if  there  is  such  a 
thing  as  God  in  the  world  I  might  come  to  know 
it." 

Slowly  his  hands  came  down  to  his  sides.  The 
sentinel  of  the  rocks  gave  a  soft  little  call  of  reas- 
surance to  the  flock,  which  had  halted,  observant 
of  the  gesture,  and  the  birds  resumed  their  feed- 
ing. Gard  turned  for  another  look  at  the  snowy 
ramparts  on  high;  at  the  vast  plain  below.  All 
their  horror  was  gone,  for  him,  and  he  began  the 
descent  of  the  mountain  with  the  peaceful  visage  of 
one  who  has  been  in  a  good  place. 

FAR  into  the  night  he  awoke  with  the  feeling  of 
something  stirring  near  him.  In  the  dim  firelight 
he  could  make  out  a  shadowy  figure  on  the  hearth, 
and  he  sprang  up  in  haste.  A  second  glance,  how- 
ever, as  he  sat  upon  his  ocotilla  bed,  showed  him 
that  there  was  no  harm  in  the  visitor  shivering 
there  by  the  coals. 

It  was  a  burro,  and  the  listless  pose,  the  droop- 
ing ears  and  the  trembling  knees  proclaimed  a 
sick  burro.  It  was  too  miserable  even  to  move, 

54 


THE  WELL  IN  THE  DESERT 

when  Card  threw  an  armful  of  brush  on  the  fire 
and  speedily  had  a  blaze  by  which  he  could  see  the 
intruder  plainly.  His  first  glance  revealed  a 
jagged,  dreadful  sore  on  the  shoulder  next  to  the 
light. 

Speaking  very  gently,  he  drew  nearer  to  the 
burro  and  though  the  little  creature  trembled  vio- 
lently, it  let  him  bend  down  and  examine  the 
wound. 

A  great  spike  of  the  long,  tough  crucifixion- 
thorn  had  somehow  become  imbedded  in  the  flesh, 
and  the  whole  surface  of  the  shoulder  was  swollen 
and  inflamed.  Card  made  a  little  sound  of  pity  in 
his  throat,  and  the  burro,  turning,  tried  to  lick  the 
sore. 

"No  use  to  do  that  yet,  Jinny,"  the  man  said. 
"That  thorn  's  got  to  come  out  first." 

The  burro  had  probably  never  before  been 
touched  by  hands;  but  not  for  nothing  was  Jinny 
wide  between  the  ears.  She  scrutinized  her 
would-be  helper  closely,  for  a  moment,  through 
her  long  lashes,  and  drooped  her  wise-looking  little 
gray  head  still  lower.  Card  threw  another  armful 
of  light  stuff  on  the  fire  and  when  the  blaze  was 
brightest  attacked  the  thorn,  using  one  of  his 
sharp  arrows  as  a  probe. 

Once  or  twice  the  creature  flinched.  Once  she 
snapped  her  strong  teeth  at  the  hurting  side;  but 

55 


THE  WELL  IN  THE  DESERT 

Card  worked  steadily  and  quickly,  and  presently 
had  the  offender  out. 

"Look  a'  that,  Jinny,"  he  cried,  triumphantly. 
It  was  a  joy  to  hear  himself  speaking  to  something 
alive. 

"Look  a'  that!"  he  repeated,  "Ain't  you  glad 
you  found  the  doctor  in?" 

He  dipped  warm  water  from  an  earthen  pot  in 
the  ashes,  and  washed  the  wound  carefully,  talking 
all  the  while  to  the  still  trembling  patient,  silently 
regarding  him.  When  the  place  was  quite  clean 
he  made  a  poultice  of  prickly  pear  and  bound  it 
on  with  a  strip  of  deer-skin. 

"Lucky  I  shot  another  buck,  Jinny,"  he  said,  "or 
you  would  n't  have  that  nice  bandage." 

The  little  burro  expressed  no  thanks ;  only  stared 
solemnly  at  the  fire.  Gard  strode  out  into  the  dark- 
ness and  pulled,  recklessly,  an  armful  of  his  pre- 
cious, growing  oats.  He  threw  the  green  stuff 
down  before  her  and  she  sniffed  it  curiously  before 
she  began,  ravenously,  to  eat  it. 

"Hungry,  were  n't  you?"  the  man  said,  sympa- 
thetically. "Been  too  sick  to  eat.  Well,  well, 
make  yourself  at  home." 

He  threw  a  big  stick  upon  the  fire  and  went  back 
to  his  bed,  leaving  the  burro  chewing,  meditatively, 
before  the  blaze. 

He  was  just  falling  asleep  when  he  felt  some- 

56 


THE  WELL  IN  THE  DESERT 

thing  warm  fumbling  about  him,  and  he  awoke 
with  a  start,  and  an  exclamation  that  quickly  turned 
to  something  very  like  a  laugh.  The  grateful  little 
burro  was  licking  his  hands. 

"Why,  Jinny !"  he  cried,  sitting  up.  "Well,  well, 
Jinny !  Well,  I  '11  be  jiggered !" 

He  slipped  an  arm  over  the  rough  little  neck  and 
the  two  watched  the  fire  till  dawn. 


yV 

OF  TH6 

UNIVERSITY 


57 


CHAPTER  V 

THE  burro  got  well  and  throve.  Gard  devoted 
the  period  of  her  convalescence  to  teaching 
her  the  essential  arts  of  the  higher  companionship. 
Her  first  lesson  in  burden-bearing  was  to  bring 
ocotilla-stalks  from  the  valley.  With  these  she 
saw  the  oat  patch  fenced  in  from  her  own  depreda- 
tions, and  lifted  up  her  voice  in  remonstrance  when 
she  found  herself  barred  out  of  that  delectable 
ground.  Gard  explained  the  matter  to  her. 

"This  is  a  world,  Jinny,"  he  said,  "where  we 
have  to  wait  till  the  things  we  want  are  ripe.  I  'm 
waiting  myself,  Jinny,  for  my  time  to  come.  It 
will,  some  day,  ah— some  day!" 

He  was  thinking  of  Westcott,  but  the  curses  that 
he  was  wont  to  call  upon  his  enemy's  head  died 
upon  his  lips.  It  was  not  that  his  hatred  had  died, 
but  there  seemed,  somehow,  to  be  other  things 
than  hate,  even  in  his  tiny  world. 

He  hunted  up  a  palo-verde  thorn  with  which  to 
mark  his  day,  Jinny  keeping  him  company.  He 

58 


THE  WELL  IN  THE  DESERT 

still  kept  the  record  on  the  willow  branch,  remov- 
ing the  thorns  and  putting  them  away  whenever 
he  had  ten.  There  were  that  number  this  morning. 

Spring  was  well  advanced,  now.  The  air  was 
soft,  and  sweet  with  the  scent  of  manzanita  in  the 
chaparral.  For  days  past  hundreds  of  wild  bees 
had  been  hovering  about  the  pool,  and  the  under- 
brush. Card  had  a  line  on  them,  and  thought  he 
knew  where  the  bee-tree  was  located.  His  oats 
were  nearly  ready  for  harvest ;  a  century-plant  in  the 
valley  was  sending  up  a  long  bloom-stalk,  and  the 
sound  of  water  leaping  down  the  canon  mingled 
with  the  voices  of  birds  in  the  chaparral. 

As  Card  put  back  his  shell,  with  its  contents 
of  thorns  and  turned  toward  the  pool  sudden 
recognition  came  to  him  of  a  heretofore  unsus- 
pected truth. 

"By  the  great  face  of  clay,  Jinny,"  he  said,  draw- 
ing a  long  breath,  "We  're  not  so  bad  off,  after 
all!" 

Again  his  eyes  ranged  the  green  circle  of  the 
glade;  at  the  farther  side,  where  the  growth  was 
sparse,  he  could  see  the  valley  with  its  yellow  sands 
and  rose-tinted  air.  The  bright  red  of  blossoming 
cacti  made  vivid  patches  here  and  there  in  the 
waste;  even  the  great  barren  felt  the  touch  of 
spring. 

"God  may  have  forgot  this  country,"  the  man 

59 


THE  WELL  IN  THE  DESERT 

said,  after  a  long  silence,  "But  He  sure  made  it,  if 
He  made  the  rest.  It  's  got  the  same  brand,  when 
you  come  to  see  it. 

"I  guess,  Jinny,"  he  continued,  still  gazing  afar, 
"that  the  best  of  one  thing  's  about  as  good  as  the 
best  of  another.  What  do  you  think  about  it?" 

As  Jinny  did  not  commit  herself  he  sat  down 
upon  a  rock  and  reached  out  to  scratch  the  shaggy 
gray  head. 

"If  I  'd  got  back  to  Iowa  when  I  wanted  to," 
he  went  on,  "I  'd  most  likely  be  dead  by  now." 

Jinny's  head  drooped  till  her  nose  rested  upon 
his  knee,  and  she  nodded  off  to  sleep.  Gard  let 
her  stay  and  sat  looking  off  across  the  valley,  his 
mind  full  of  new  emotion. 

"A  man  might  think,"  he  slowly  mused,  consid- 
ering the  mystery  of  his  coming  to  this  place,  "that 
't  was  what  old  Deacon  Stebbins  used  to  call  a 
'leading'." 

He  turned  the  thought  over  in  his  mind. 

"Why  not?"  he  asked. 

His  eyes  rested  upon  one  toil  hardened  hand  as 
it  lay  upon  Jinny's  back.  He  held  it  up,  surveying 
it  curiously. 

"Rather  different,  from  what  it  was,"  he 
thought,  clenching  it  into  a  great  fist.  "Yah — " 
with  sudden  anger,  "It  '11  be  different  for  Ashley 
Westcott  if  ever  he  comes  to  feel  it." 

60 


THE  WELL  IN  THE  DESERT 

His  mind  dwelt  upon  that  possibility. 

"If  ever  I  do  get  hold  of  him,"  he  muttered,  and 
then  paused,  as  half -forgotten  memories  of  that 
faithful  teacher  came  flocking  to  the  front. 

"The  deacon  'd  be  down  on  that  idea,"  he  re- 
flected. "Wonder  how  he  'd  work  his  pet  hobby  o' 
forgiveness  here.  He  could  n't  judge  of  every- 
thing," his  thought  still  ran  on.  "The  deacon  he 
never  got  so  near  Hell  as  Arizona.  If  he  had  he  'd 
have  found  it  a  place  his  God  of  Mercy  had  n't  got 
on  His  map." 

He  put  Jinny  aside  and  set  to  work  fashioning 
himself  a  new  cup.  He  had  broken  his  only  one 
the  night  before. 

"I  guess  I  was  wrong  about  that  last  notion." 
His  brain  took  up  the  question  again  as  he  shaped 
the  red  clay.  "I  guess  He  must  have  this  place  on 
the  map.  Looks  like  His  mercy  'd  been  trailing  me 
here,  so  to  speak." 

He  paused  to  contemplate  the  proportions  of 
his  new  cup,  staring,  half  startled,  at  its  rounded 
surface.  Phrases  from  the  old  psalm  that  mothers 
love  to  teach  were  beating  upon  his  brain. 

"Goodness  and  mercy,"  he  murmured,  feeling 
his  stumbling  way  among  the  words,  "goodness 
and  mercy  shall  follow  me." 

The  familiar  glade  grew  new  and  strange  to  his 
sight,  as  though  he  saw  it  for  the  first  time. 

61 


THE  WELL  IN  THE  DESERT 

"Why!"  he  cried,  a  sudden  light  dawning,  "Is 
that  what  it  means  ?" 

Almost  mechanically  he  went  on  patting  and 
pressing  the  clay. 

"I  guess  it  does  mean  that,"  whispered  he  at 
last,  pinching  up  a  handle  for  his  cup.  "I  did  n't 
think  I  'd  be  alive  till  now  when  I  came  up  here. 
I  've  wanted  to  die,  many  a  time;  but  I  'm  glad, 
now,  I  did  n't.  I  may  get  out  of  here  some  day, 
too.  I  may  live  to  get  Westcott  yet !" 

"  'Goodness  and  mercy  shall  follow  me/  '  Was 
that  so  he  could  live  to  see  his  dream  of  vengeance 
fulfilled? 

Ah !  He  could  not  give  that  up !  It  could  never 
mean  that  he  must  give  that  up !  Else  where  were 
the  good  of  remaining  alive  ? 

No;  no;  it  did  not  mean  that!  Even  the  old 
deacon  would  n't  have  thought  he  must  forgive 
what  he,  Gabriel  Gard,  had  borne. 

"Oh,  Lord,"  Gard  said  aloud,  "It  can't  mean 
that !  It  ain't  in  human  nature  that  it  should  mean 
that!" 

The  cup  in  his  hand  was  crushed  again  to  form- 
less clay.  He  tore  and  kneaded  it  viciously,  great 
drops  of  sweat  beading  his  forehead. 

"It  's  against  human  nature,"  he  groaned  as  he 
sought  to  bring  the  plastic  stuff  again  into  shape. 
"I  can't  do  it!  But—"  The  words  rose  to  an 

62 


THE  WELL  IN  THE  DESERT 

agonized  wail  as  his  spirit  recognized  the  inexor- 
ableness  of  this  demand  upon  its  powers— "I  Ve 
got  to.  I  Ve  got  to !" 

His  mind  went  back  to  the  day  upon  the  moun- 
tain-ridge, when  he  had  seen  the  quail,  and  he  re- 
membered his  wish,  the  wish  that  had  been  almost 
a  prayer ;  remembered  it  with  a  hushed  feeling  of 
awe. 

"If  I  'd  sensed  it,"  he  said  in  a  voice  tense  with 
his  soul's  pain,  "If  I  'd  sensed  that  this  is  what 
comes  of  knowing  there  's  a  God,  I  guess  I 
would  n't  have  dared  wish  that." 

Hour  after  hour  the  battle  was  fought  over  the 
wet,  red  clay,  and  the  day  was  far  spent  before 
the  cup  was  ready  for  the  kiln.  When  at  last 
Card,  weary,  but  at  peace,  brought  it  for  the  final 
perfecting  of  the  fire,  he  paused,  ere  he  thrust  it 
in,  to  read  once  more  the  rude  letters  graven  deep 
in  its  fabric. 

THE  CUP  OF  FORGIVENESS 

"We  '11  see  how  it  comes  out,"  he  muttered, 
grimly,  but  already  the  hope  grew  in  his  heart  that 
the  clay  would  stand  the  test. 

THROUGHOUT  the  spring  Gard  busied  himself  with 
building  a  cabin.  He  needed  a  place  in  which  to 

63 


THE  WELL  IN  THE  DESERT 

keep  his  stores  from  prowling  creatures.  A  brown 
bear  had  secured  a  good  part  of  the  last  deer  he 
had  shot — secured  it  while  it  was  drying  on 
branches  of  the  mesquite— and  the  birds  and  small 
beasts  of  the  chaparral  took  toll  of  all  his  scanty 
supplies.  Then,  too,  he  took  a  man's  delight  in 
construction,  and  the  building  of  the  cabin  had 
come  to  be  a  labor  of  love,  as  well  as  of  necessity. 

The  walls  of  the  structure  were  of  desert  stones 
laid  up  in  mud.  For  the  roof  he  brought  skeleton 
stalks  of  suhuaro.  Later  he  meant  to  plaster  these 
with  adobe,  into  which  he  should  work  straw,  and 
the  coarse  gramma  grass  of  the  region. 

He  worked  upon  the  building  at  odd  times,  as 
the  summer  went  on,  taking  increasing  joy  in 
bringing  it  to  completeness.  He  mascerated 
prickly-pear  cactus  in  water  and  soaked  the  earthen 
floor  with  the  resulting  liquor,  pounding  it  down 
afterwards  until  it  was  hard  and  smooth  as  cement. 
He  made  his  door  of  ocotilla-stalks  laid  side  by 
side  and  woven  with  willow-withes.  In  the  same 
way  he  contrived  a  shutter  for  the  window,  and  he 
constructed  a  second,  smaller,  fireplace,  within  the 
cabin. 

"When  we  have  distinguished  visitors,  Jinny,"  he 
told  the  little  burro,  "We  '11  kindle  a  fire  for  them 
here." 

He  still  used  the  larger  hearth  outside.  He  had 
learned,  after  many  trials,  to  kindle  a  fire  with  the 

64 


THE  WELL  IN  THE  DESERT 

aid  of  flint  and  steel,  and  was  no  longer  dependent 
upon  matches. 

When  his  shelter  was  complete  he  contrived 
furniture  for  it,  for  the  sheer  pleasure  of  con- 
struction. Lacking  boards,  or  the  means  to  manu- 
facture them,  he  wove  his  table-top  of  arrow-weed 
and  tough  grasses  from  the  canon.  It  was  begin- 
ning to  be  a  source  of  delight  to  him  to  contrive 
solutions  for  each  new  problem  of  his  hard  exist- 
ence. 

One  night,  in  the  early  autumn,  Card  was  wak- 
ened by  a  fearful  crash  of  thunder.  He  sprang 
from  his  bed,  to  find  Jinny  already  huddled  against 
him.  All  about  them  was  the  roar  of  the  sudden 
storm. 

The  pool  had  overflowed,  and  swept  across  the 
glade  in  a  broad  stream,  pouring  down  the  defile  in 
a  whelming  tide.  The  heavens  seemed  to  have 
opened,  torrentially ;  Card's  bed  was  beaten  down, 
and  the  fire  was  flooded.  Card  himself  was  almost 
thrown  to  earth  by  the  thrashing  rain  ere  he  could 
reach  the  cabin,  into  which  he  darted,  Jinny  close 
at  his  heels. 

The  shelter  was  built  against  huge  boulders,  out 
of  the  track  of  the  flood  from  the  pool,  but  the  mud 
and  thatch  roof  leaked  like  a  sieve.  It  served,  how- 
ever, to  break  the  fierce  violence  of  the  storm,  and 
they  huddled  there  miserably  till  the  worst  should 
be  over. 

65 


THE  WELL  IN  THE  DESERT 

The  sounds  without  were  like  those  of  a  battle : 
the  echoing  rattle  of  thunder  down  the  canon ;  the 
rending  of  rocks;  the  crash  of  falling  trees;  the 
screaming  of  the  wind — all  mingled  in  a  fierce, 
wild  tumult. 

A  flash  of  lightning  revealed  a  great  scrub-oak, 
torn  from  its  anchorage  above,  crashing  down  into 
the  glade.  The  next  instant  the  whole  place 
seemed  filled  with  some  giant  thing  that  raged  and 
snarled,  hurling  itself  from  side  to  side  in  mighty 
struggle. 

It  dashed  against  the  fireplace,  flinging  the  great 
stones  of  it  in  every  direction,  and  fell  upon  the 
uprooted  tree  in  a  frenzy  of  titanic  rage. 

Its  horrible  roaring  shook  the  cabin,  and  Jinny, 
pressing  against  Card,  was  almost  beside  herself 
with  terror.  Gard  himself,  peering  through  the 
window  of  the  hut,  could  make  out  nothing  defi- 
nite, until  another  flash  suddenly  showed  him  a 
huge  grizzly,  reared  upon  its  hind  legs,  striking 
madly  at  the  empty  air. 

The  storm  had  moderated,  now,  and  he  could 
hear,  as  he  strained  to  listen,  the  fearful  snarls  of 
the  bear  rising  above  the  roar  of  the  wind.  The 
threshing  tumult  of  its  plunging  had  ceased,  how- 
ever, and  even  the  snarling  had  grown  weaker. 

The  rain  ceased,  but  the  wind  still  swept  the 
glade,  and  the  pool  had  become  a  lake.  Gard  was 

66 


THE  WELL  IN  THE  DESERT 

chilled  to  the  bone,  but  dared  not  venture  without. 
He  had  not  heard  the  grizzly  for  some  time,  but 
Jinny  still  cowered  against  him,  trembling. 

At  dawn  he  looked  from  the  window  upon  a 
scene  of  devastation.  The  ground  was  strewn  with 
debris.  Great  boulders  had  been  hurled  down  by 
the  torrent's  force,  and  beside  one  ragged  block  of 
granite  lay  the  grizzly,  terrible,  even  in  death. 
One  side  of  its  savage  head  was  crushed  in,  and  a 
shoulder  shattered. 

Jinny  was  still  too  terrified  to  venture  outside 
the  hut,  but  Card  went  out  and  set  to  work  to  re- 
store some  semblance  of  order  about  the  place. 

The  roof  of  the  shack  was  a  wreck.  Card  had 
to  clear  away  a  part  of  it  that  had  fallen,  before 
he  could  find  his  precious  matches  and  get  a  fire. 
There  were  nine  of  the  matches  left,  and  it  took 
two  to  start  a  blaze  with  the  soaked  wood.  He 
breakfasted  upon  dried  venison,  which  he  shared 
with  Jinny,  grown  catholic  in  her  tastes,  and  then 
set  about  skinning  and  dressing  the  bear. 

He  stretched  and  scraped  the  great  hide,  and 
pinned  it  out  upon  the  earth,  (it  meant  warmth 
and  comfort  to  him  through  the  coming  winter 
nights,)  and  cut  the  meat  into  long  strips,  to  dry. 
It  would  be  a  welcome  change,  later,  from  venison 
and  rabbit. 

It  was  noon  before  his  toil  was  completed  and 


THE  WELL  IN  THE  DESERT 

the  traces  of  it  so  far  removed  as  to  ease  Jinny's 
perturbation.  He  was  obliged  to  bathe  in  the  en- 
larged pool  before  she  seemed  comfortable  when 
near  him. 

As  he  dressed,  after  his  ablutions,  his  eye  caught 
a  broken  bit  of  rock  lying  at  the  water's  edge.  He 
picked  it  up,  a  curious  tightening  in  his  throat. 

There  is  something  about  the  glitter  of  a 
streak  of  yellow  in  a  bit  of  rock  that  would  set 
the  heart  of  the  last  man  on  the  last  unsubmerged 
point  of  earth  to  beating  fast.  The  piece  of  float 
was  freshly  severed  and  the  flecks  of  yellow  showed 
plainly  in  its  split  surface.  Card  scrutinized  the 
mud  round  about,  and  beyond  the*  pool  found  an- 
other bit  of  float. 

Forgetful  of  all  else,  he  sprang  up  the  canon. 
It,  too,  was  full  of  debris,  witness  to  the  mighty 
power  of  the  storm.  He  hardly  knew  the  place  as 
he  climbed  along,  making  a  new  way  for  himself ; 
for  the  swollen  stream  roared  wildly  where  but  the 
day  before  he  had  been  able  to  walk. 

The  canon  walls  on  either  side  were  wrought 
and  twisted  by  the  action  of  ancient  heat,  scarred 
and  eroded  by  the  force  of  ancient  waters,  but 
they  revealed  no  fresh  break,  though  he  scanned 
them  eagerly. 

He  kept  on,  however;  for  a  quarter  of  a  mile 
above  the  pool  another  bit  of  float  pointed  the 

68 


THE  WELL  IN  THE  DESERT 

way.  It  was  a  savage  climb,  but  mounting,  circling 
and  crawling  past  heaped  up  boulders  and  masses 
of  earth,  he  presently  found  progress  checked  by 
a  landslip,  beneath  which  the  rushing  water  was 
already  cutting  a  channel. 

Here  lay  the  vein,  uncovered,  the  gleaming  parti- 
cles in  the  cloven  rock  making  the  man's  breath 
come  thick  as  he  studied  them. 

There  was  no  doubt  about  it :  he  had  discovered 
pay  rock  of  the  richest  sort.  How  rich  it  was  he 
had  no  means  of  determining,  nor  did  he  then 
dream;  but  he  knew  that  right  in  sight  was  more 
gold  than  he  should  be  able  to  get  out  with  any 
tool  at  his  command,  and  hope  was  already  high 
within  him. 

He  stooped  and  picked  up  small  fragments  of 
broken  rock  that  lay  among  the  debris.  How 
heavy  they  were !  What  power  they  represented ! 
What  dreams  might  come  true,  by  the  aid  of  their 
yellow  shine ! 

Here  was  his  ticket  east.  Here  was  a  ticket  to 
the  uttermost  parts  of  the  earth.  With  it  he  could 
go  away,  stand  rehabilitated  among  his  fellows. 
Golden  vistas  of  power  and  pleasure  spread  out 
before  him  as  he  stood  gazing  long  at  the  cleft, 
yellow-flecked  rock  before  him. 

"Whoever  runs  this  outfit,"  he  whispered,  "has 
remembered  it,  after  all." 

69 


THE  WELL  IN  THE  DESERT 

It  was  long  before  he  could  bring  himself  back 
to  reality.  Only  the  gathering  autumn  gloom, 
coming  early,  in  the  canon's  depth,  finally  recalled 
him.  He  began  turning  over  in  his  mind  the  means 
he  must  contrive  with  which  to  meet  this  emer- 
gency. If  only  he  had  the  tools ! 

"It  's  up  to  me  to  make  some,"  he  said 
aloud,  and  at  the  words  he  suddenly  turned  and 
looked  back  at  the  golden  vein  he  was  leaving. 

"You  're  great !"  he  shouted ;  "You  're  bully  to 
have ;  but  you  ain't  all  there  is  to  it !" 

He  spread  out  his  hard  hands.  "These  that  can 
make  the  things  to  get  you  out  with  are  better  yet," 
he  said,  speaking  more  slowly. 

For  he  suddenly  remembered  the  pit  from  which 
he  was  digged,  and  the  man's  heart  yearned  to  his 
fire  beside  the  clean  pool,  and  for  the  life  there  that 
he  had  wrested  from  nothing. 


70 


CHAPTER  VI 

GARD  and  Jinny  were  on  an  expedition  after 
salt.  The  instinct  hidden  in  the  gray  little 
hide  was  so  much  more  useful  in  the  case  than  the 
thinking  machinery  beneath  the  man's  thatch  of 
hair,  that  she  had  long  ago  led  him  to  a  desert 
supply  of  this  commodity,  which  he  had  longed 
for,  without  being  able  to  supply  his  need. 

He  was  utilizing  the  trip  in  an  effort  to  make 
Jinny  bridlewise,  a  proceeding  which  filled  her 
with  great  displeasure.  She  was  a  sturdy  little 
brute,  of  good  size  for  a  wild  burro,  and  she  bore 
his  weight  without  apparent  effort;  but  she  had  a 
fondness  for  choosing  her  own  direction,  and  ob- 
jected, strongly,  to  the  guiding  rein.  She  protested, 
now,  raising  her  voice,  after  the  manner  of  her 
kind,  when  Card,  from  her  back,  essayed  to  turn 
her  at  his  will. 

"Jinny!  Jinny!"  he  remonstrated;  "Not  for 
the  world  would  I  call  you  anything  but  a  lady; 
but  I  can't  be  so  mistaken,  Jinny!  You  're  not  a 
nightingale !" 


THE  WELL  IN  THE  DESERT 

Jinny  was  persistent,  however,  in  her  determina- 
tion to  travel  eastward,  and  although  her  com- 
panion, had  he  been  allowed  a  preference,  would 
have  elected  to  go  toward  the  west,  he  had  learned 
enough  about  his  small  gray  friend  to  be  willing  to 
trust  her  judgment  in  the  matter. 

"Though  I  must  say,  Jinny,"  he  remarked,  re- 
proachfully, as  he  gave  her  her  head,  "that  it  's 
spoiling  the  making  of  a  good  saddle-burro." 

It  was  well  toward  the  end  of  Card's  second 
year  in  the  desert.  In  all  this  time  he  had  but  once 
encountered  his  own  kind. 

On  that  occasion,  too,  he  had  been  after  salt,  and 
he  had  met  a  desert  Indian  afar  on  the  plain.  They 
had  talked  together,  after  a  fashion,  by  the  aid  of 
signs,  and  Gard  had  learned  that  the  railroad  lay 
three  days  distant,  toward  the  northwest.  This 
was  a  matter  about  which  he  had  often  speculated, 
and  he  was  glad  of  the  information.  Because  of 
it,  he  proffered  the  Indian  the  deputy's  pipe,  which 
he  had  with  him,  happening,  on  that  day,  to  be 
wearing  Arnold's  coat.  The  brave  took  it,  the 
gift  only  serving  to  strengthen  his  already  formed 
opinion  that  the  gaunt  white  man  with  the  great 
beard  was  loco. 

It  was  a  year  since  the  discovery  in  the  canon. 
Gard  had  worked  the  vein,  in  a  primitive  way, 
making  for  the  purpose  a  rough  mattock,  from  his 

72 


THE  WELL  IN  THE  DESERT 

useful  wagon-spring.  It  was  by  far  the  best  tool 
he  had  constructed,  and  he  regarded  it  with  even 
more  pride  and  pleasure  than  he  took  in  the  two 
heavy  little  buckskin  bags  for  which  he  had  made 
a  hiding  place  in  the  chimney  of  the  rehabilitated 
cabin. 

He  had  arrived  in  these  days  at  a  strange  con- 
tent. He  loved  the  vast  reaches  of  his  large  place ; 
the  problems  of  his  elemental  environment.  The 
luminous  blue  sky,  the  colorful  air,  the  immensity 
of  the  waste  plain,  gave  him  pleasure.  Even  the 
weird  desert-growths  no  longer  oppressed  him. 

"After  all,  Jinny,"  he  said,  as  they  threaded 
their  way  gingerly  past  a  great  patch  of  cholla, 
with  its  vicious,  hooked  spines,  "there  's  as  much 
life  here  as  there  is  death.  I  never  sensed  it  be- 
fore ;  but  everything  's  got  a  claw  to  hang  onto  life 
with." 

The  thought  of  returning  to  civilization  was  put 
away  with  ever  increasing  ease.  He  had  not  aban- 
doned the  idea,  but  it  came  as  a  more  and  more 
remote  possibility.  Even  his  dream  of  vengeance 
had  long  been  put  aside.  He  had  learned  the 
futility  of  hate  in  the  nights  when  he  watched  the 
great  stars  wheel  by,  marking  the  march  of  the 
year. 

"There  's  nothing  in  it,"  he  had  finally  said  to 
himself. 

73 


THE  WELL  IN  THE  DESERT 

"It  ain't  a  man's  job  to  be  staking  out  claims  in 
hell  for  another  fellow." 

If  Jinny,  who  heard  this,  did  not  understand,  she 
at  least  offered  no  contradiction,  being  by  that 
much  wiser  than  many  of  her  kind  on  a  higher 
plane. 

The  -desert  stretched  away  before  Card,  vast, 
silent,  untamed,  at  this  moment  a  thing  of  gold 
and  flame,  touched,  far  in  the  distance,  by  great 
cloud-shadows,  that  sent  the  man's  gaze  from  the 
fierce  plain  to  the  wide  blue  overhead.  But  not  a 
cloud  was  in  sight  and  he  realized  that,  probably 
for  the  hundredth  time,  he  had  been  deceived  by 
patches  of  lava  cropping  up  among  the  red  and 
yellow  sands. 

Something  that  was  not  a  cloud  arrested  his  at- 
tention. Far  in  the  sky  half  a  dozen  great  black 
birds  flew,  now  high,  now  lower,  but  circling  al- 
ways above  one  spot.  Gard  watched  them  with 
an  understanding  eye. 

"Jinny,"  he  said,  "There  's  something  dying, 
over  there.  You  and  I  'd  better  go  see  what  it  is." 

He  had  dismounted  some  time  since,  and  was 
walking  beside  the  burro.  Now  he  started  for- 
ward at  a  faster  pace.  It  might  be  only  a  hurt 
coyote  that  the  hideous  birds  waited  for,  but  it 
might  be  a  man !  The  thought  quickened  his  steps 
still  more,  till  Jinny  had  to  trot,  to  keep  pace  with 
him. 

74 


THE  WELL  IN  THE  DESERT 

Once  an  aerial  scavenger  swooped  lower  than 
any  other  had  yet  done,  and  at  the  sight  the  man 
broke  into  a  run.  The  birds  still  kept  off,  however. 
Whatever  it  was,  lying  out  there,  somewhere,  it 
was  yet  alive. 

They  were  traveling  along  the  edge  of  a  deep 
barranca  that  yawned  in  the  desert,  and  presently 
Card  caught  sight  of  a  dark  object  lying  on  the 
sand,  at  the  bottom  of  the  fissure.  It  was  a  man. 
The  banks  of  the  ditch  sloped  just  there.  Evi- 
dently he  had  attempted  to  cross,  and  had  been 
caught  in  quicksand. 

He  was  lying  on  his  back,  his  arms  outstretched, 
his  feet  wide  apart,  a  curious  rigidity  about  his 
whole  figure.  Card's  long  stride  left  Jinny  far  be- 
hind as  he  ran. 

"Hold  on!"  he  shouted.  "Somebody  's  com- 
ing!" 

There  was  no  response  from  the  man.  He  lay 
as  one  dead,  save  for  the  occasional  lifting  now 
of  one  arm,  now  of  the  other. 

Down  the  sloping  bank  Card  ran,  to  the  very 
edge  of  the  shifting  sand.  Here  he  stopped,  and 
began  cautiously  to  tread,  his  feet  side  by  side, 
stamping,  stamping,  moving  forward  half  an  inch 
at  a  time,  but  never  ceasing  to  tread.  He  was 
harried  by  the  need  of  haste,  but  he  made  sure  of 
his  progress  as  he  went,  knowing  that  the  sand 
must  be  solidly  packed,  every  inch  of  the  way. 

75 


THE  WELL  IN  THE  DESERT 

From  time  to  time  he  spoke  to  the  man,  and  at 
last  got  a  mumbled  word  or  two  from  the  swollen 
lips.  The  need  of  haste  was  increasing  every 
second,  and  Card  worked  breathlessly,  now,  till  at 
last  he  could  touch  his  fellow,  lying  there. 

Still  marking  time  with  his  feet  upon  the  sand, 
he  slipped  from  his  own  waist  the  riata  he  always 
carried  when  he  came  down  to  the  plain.  He  had 
made  it  himself  of  finely  braided  hide,  suppled  and 
wrought  with  faithful  care,  and  he  knew  its 
strength.  Working  fast,  he  raised  the  man's 
shoulders,  ever  so  little,  and  slipped  the  rope 
beneath  his  arms.  He  knotted  it  into  a  loop  and 
adjusted  it  over  his  own  shoulders.  Then,  getting 
a  strong  hold  with  his  hands  under  the  man's  arms, 
he  straightened  up. 

The  sand  slipped,  and  ran,  gurgling  horribly, 
sucking,  sucking,  loth  to  lose  its  victim,  but  the 
pull  of  rope  and  hands  together  counted.  Card 
took  a  backward  step  and  gained  a  few  precarious 
inches. 

A  second  time  he  stooped,  and  straightened,  re- 
peating the  performance  again  and  again,  until  the 
man  lay  upon  the  trampled  path.  Gard  could  use 
his  strength  to  better  advantage  now,  and  half  lift- 
ing the  dead  weight,  he  drew  it  back  to  the  edge 
of  the  sand. 

The  man  was  barely  conscious,  but  Gard  laid 


THE  WELL  IN  THE  DESERT 

him  on  the  sloping  bank  and  gave  him  a  little 
water  from  his  canteen. 

It  revived  him  somewhat,  and  was  repeated,  after 
a  moment.  He  was  able  to  mumble  now,  begging 
for  more,  which  Gard  gave  him  as  fast  as  he  dared, 
till  at  last  the  poor  fellow  got  to  his  hands  and 
knees,  and  was  able,  with  help,  to  crawl  slowly  up 
to  the  plain. 

Here,  Gard  soaked  a  little  cake  of  oat  flour  in 
water,  and  fed  him  like  a  baby,  but  it  was  an  hour 
before  he  was  able,  after  many  attempts,  to  get 
the  man  upon  Jinny's  back. 

He  could  not  sit  erect,  but  Gard  walked  beside 
him,  supporting  him,  and  the  little  cavalcade  set 
out  for  home.  The  rescued  man  was  half  delirious, 
and  muttered  continually,  between  his  pleadings 
for  water,  of  the  heat;  of  thirst,  and  of  the  vul- 
tures. Gard  could  not  make  out  what  particular 
disaster  had  befallen  him,  but  the  empty  canteen 
slung  at  his  back,  and  the  absence  of  anything  like 
food,  or  of  an  outfit,  was  eloquent  witness  that  a 
desert  tragedy  had  been  averted. 

Before  they  had  gone  far  up  the  trail  to  the 
glade  the  delirious  muttering  ceased;  the  man 
swayed  toward  his  rescuer  until  his  head  rested 
upon  the  latter's  shoulder,  and  so  they  went  on. 
Whether  he  was  asleep,  or  in  a  faint,  Gard  could 
not  tell. 

77 


THE  WELL  IN  THE  DESERT 

"He  's  had  a  tough  pull,  that  's  certain,  Jin- 
ny," he  said,  giving  the  burro  an  encouraging 
pat. 

Could  Jinny  have  spoken  she  might  have  said  that 
she  was  herself  having  a  hard  pull.  She  had  often 
carried  Card,  on  the  plain,  but  this  dead  weight, 
on  an  up-grade,  was  a  brand-new  surprise  for  her. 
She  wagged  her  solemn  little  head  sorrowfully  as 
she  plodded  on,  and  not  even  the  oat  cake  that 
Card  reached  forth  to  her  seemed  to  impart  any 
charm  to  life  as  she  then  saw  it. 

They  reached  the  glade  at  last,  and  Card  got  the 
stranger  upon  his  own  bed,  covering  him  with  the 
great  bear-skin  robe.  He  brought  him  nearly  all 
that  was  left  of  the  deputy's  whiskey,  cherished 
carefully  all  these  months,  and  set  to  preparing  a 
meal. 

He  kicked  aside  the  smoldering  ashes  of  a  nearly 
burned  out  fire  on  the  hard  earth,  and  with  a  few 
thrusts  of  a  broad,  flat  stick,  disclosed  the  earthen 
jar  of  mesquite  beans  that  he  had  left  to  cook  in 
his  absence.  Simmering  with  the  beans  were  the 
marrowbone  of  a  deer  and  the  carcass  of  a  rabbit 
caught  that  morning.  The  savory  whiffs  from  the 
steaming  mess  made  the  exhausted  man  on  the  bed 
turn  his  face  to  the  fire. 

"How  in  all  git  out,"  he  began,  feebly,  and 
stared  in  amazement;  for  Card  had  flanked  the 
bean-pot  with  another,  taken  from  the  fire  he  had 

78 


THE  WELL  IN  THE  DESERT 

quickly  kindled  by  transferring  the  still  smoldering 
sticks  from  the  bake-fire  to  the  fireplace.  The 
visitor  sniffed  at  this  second  pot,  incredulously. 

"Where  'd  you  git  coffee?"  he  demanded. 

"Sweet  acorns/'  Card  explained,  briefly.  He 
was  tasting  the  full  joy  of  hospitality  as  he  brought 
wild  honey,  and  more  oat  cakes,  from  the  shack. 

The  stranger  reached  eager  hands  toward  the 
acorn  coffee. 

"Gimme  some — hot!"  he  pleaded. 

Card  rilled  a  crooked  earthen  bowl  with  it  and 
brought  it  to  him,  steaming.  He  drained  it,  almost 
savagely,  handing  the  bowl  back  with  a  sigh  of 
satisfaction  that  left  nothing  for  words  to  express. 

"Partner,"  he  said,  his  little  close-set  eyes  taking 
in  the  scene,  wonderingly,  "This  is  sure  a  great 
layout.  How  'd  ye  find  the  place,  an'  what  's  yer 
game?" 

"I  got  up  here  by  chance,"  Card  said,  evasively. 
"I  liked  the  spot,  and  so  I  've  stayed  along.  My 
name  's  Card,"  he  added,  remembering  that  he  had 
not  told  it. 

"Mine  's  Thad  Broome,"  the  other  replied,  "an' 
I  'm  runnin'  the  hell  of  a  streak  o'  luck." 

Gard  had  moved  his  little  table  up  beside  his 
guest,  and  now  he  proceeded  to  serve  his  meal  on 
flat,  clay  plates  of  rather  nondescript  shape.  He 
had  a  fork  and  a  spoon,  rudely  fashioned  of  wood, 
and  these  he  allotted  to  the  stranger. 

79 


THE  WELL  IN  THE  DESERT 

"Did  you  make  everything  ye  've  got?"  Broome 
demanded,  examining  them  curiously. 

"Very  nearly,"  was  the  reply,  and  the  new- 
comer began  to  eat,  eagerly.  At  intervals,  during 
the  meal,  he  told  his  story. 

"I  'm  a  cow-man  myself,"  he  said,  flinging  a 
bone  out  across  the  glade,  "An'  if  ever  I  git  back 
on  the  range  ye  kin  fry  me  in  skunk  ile  first  time 
ye  ketch  me  off  it." 

He  took  another  grea't  draught  of  the  acorn 
coffee,  swearing,  savagely,  as  he  set  the  bowl  down. 

"Seems  like  I  'd  never  git  the  taste  o'  the  desert 
out'n  my  mouth  again,"  he  muttered. 

"I  was  with  the  'K  bar  C  outfit,"  he  went  on, 
"Up  Tusayan  way.  Know  it  ?" 

Card  shook  his  head. 

"Then  ye  're  that  much  better  off,"  Broome  said, 
gloomily.  "The  grub  was  fierce ;  they  was  a  fore- 
man that  was  seven  hull  devils  all  rolled  in  one, 
an'  a  range  that  'd  drive  ye  crazy  to  ride.  I  was 
mighty  sick  of  it,  a  while  along,  an'  I  met  up  with 
a  cuss  one  day  that  'd  bin  out  prospectin',  an' 
struck  it  rich.  So,  bein'  a  blame  fool,  I  got  the 
fever." 

He  paused  to  watch  his  host,  who  was  gathering 
the  remains  of  the  meal  and  putting  things  ship- 
shape with  a  certain  fine  neatness  that  had  become 
the  habit  of  Card's  solitude. 

80 


THE  WELL  IN  THE  DESERT 

"D'  ye  allus  put  on  as  much  dog  as  that?"  he 
asked. 

"As  much  as  what?" 

"Cleanin'  camp  like  an  old  maid  school-ma'am," 
was  the  reply.  "Jus'  you  alone :  wha  'd  ye  bother 
for?" 

"It  had  to  be  that,  or  to  go  on  all  fours."  Card 
offered  no  further  explanation.  Thad  Broome's 
type  was  familiar  enough;  he  had  foregathered 
with  it  by  many  a  camp  fire.  He  had  saved  this 
man  from  a  horrible  death,  and  the  fellow  was  his 
guest;  yet  he  realized,  with  a  feeling  of  shamed 
hospitality,  that  Broome's  presence  was  irksome. 

"Been  here  long?"  the  latter  asked. 

"Longer  than  it  has  seemed,  maybe,"  laughed 
Gard. 

"There  's  a  difference  in  things,"  he  added, 
lightly.  "I  guess,  now,  the  time  you  were  down  in 
the  quicksand  seemed  longer  than  it  really  was?" 

"Hell,  yes!"  Broome  was  launched  again  on 
the  stream  of  his  troubles.  He  resumed  the  narra- 
tive, sprinkling  it  liberally  with  oaths.  He  had 
started  out  with  a  full  equipment  and  a  good 
bronco,  and  the  creature  had  "died  on  him,"  a  week 
before,  in  the  desert. 

"You  should  have  had  a  burro,"  Gard  said. 

"So  they  said.     But  I  stuck  to  the  idee  of  a 
bronc.    I  ain't  no  walkist." 
6  81 


THE  WELL  IN  THE  DESERT 

"He  did  n't  last  but  three  weeks,"  he  added,  "an' 
when  he  croaked  the  damned  buzzards  was  on  'im 
before  I  got  out  o'  sight." 

"Where  were  you  going  when  you  struck,  the 
quicksand  ?"  the  other  asked. 

"Tryin'  to'  strike  the  railroad,  afoot,"  was  the 
reply.  "It  's  me  fer  ridin'  when  I  can.  I  said  I 
wan't  no  walkist.  I  got  turned  'round.  I  kep' 
lightin'  load,  an'  my  grub  gin  out.  Then  I  run 
out  o'  water."  He  gave  a  shuddering  gulp,  and 
continued : 

"I  run  round  a  lot,  lookin'  fer  't,  till  I  got  in  the 
quicksand.  That  was  just  before  you  hollered,  I 
guess.  But  them  buzzards  was  Johnny  on  the  spot 
the  minute  I  was  down.  I  most  went  mad  with  'em." 

"Did  n't  you  have  a  gun?"  Card  asked.  "Why 
did  n't  you  fire  it?" 

"Gun?  You  bet  yer  life  I  had  a  gun.  I  fired  all 
my  am-nition  an'  then  I  fergit  what.  I  guess  I 
threw  the  damned  thing  away.  I  got  dotty,  havin' 
no  water." 

"And  there  was  good  water  within  twenty  feet 
of  you,"  Gard  said,  musingly. 

"How  's  that  ?"    Broome's  tone  was  incredulous. 

"Why  did  n't  you  tap  the  nigger-head  there  by 
the  barranca?"  his  companion  asked. 

"What— the  big  cactus  like  a  green  punkin? 
What  for?"  Broome  demanded,  and  Gard  ex- 

82 


THE  WELL  IN  THE  DESERT 

plained  the  nature  of  the  bisnaga.  If  he  had  cut 
off  the  top  he  would  probably  have  found  a  quart 
or  two  of  water.  Broome  listened  with  curious 
intentness,  and  when  the  other  had  finished,  broke 
into  a  torrent  of  execration. 

He  cursed  the  desert  in  its  nearness  and  its  re- 
moteness, inclusively  and  particularly,  for  several 
moments,  until  presently  words  seemed  to  fail  him, 
and  the  torrent  of  his  oaths  dribbled  to  an  inter- 
mittent trickle. 

When  he  finally  paused  for  breath  Card  sat  as 
though  he  had  not  heard,  staring  across  the  glade 
at  the  fire,  but  Jinny,  at  his  side,  seemed  all  atten- 
tion, her  long  ears  pricked  forward,  her  sagacious 
little  visage  turned  full  upon  the  stranger.  There 
was  something  disconcerting  in  the  attitude  of  the 
two,  and  Broome  felt  it,  without  comprehending  it. 
His  voice  trailed  off  weakly. 

"Mebby  ye  don't  like  my  remarks,"  he  said, 
lamely,  "I  notice  ye  don't  cuss  none  yerself  ?" 

"Don't  I  ?"  Card  asked  the  question  in  all  sim- 
plicity. "I  did  n't  know  it." 

Broome  stared,  uneasily,  until  the  other  was 
constrained  to  take  notice. 

"I  guess  I  do,"  he  laughed,  half  apologetically. 
"I  guess  I  swear  as  much  as  anybody,  when  I  .feel 
so,"  he  added,  "but  I  don't  feel  so  much— not 
nowadays." 

83 


THE  WELL  IN  THE  DESERT 

"Ye  kin  jus'  bet  yer  life,"  blustered  Broome, 
with  a  show  of  being  at  ease,  "that  if  ye  'd  bin 
through  what  I  have  ye  'd  be  ready  to  cuss  the  hull 
blamed  outfit." 

He  laughed  loudly,  as  he  spoke,  but  Card  was 
replenishing  the  fire,  and  made  no  reply. 

Long  hours  after  Broome  was  sleeping,  ex- 
hausted, his  host  sat  before  the  glowing  embers. 
The  day's  experiences  had  brought  much  to  con- 
sider. 

For  one  thing,  it  was  certain  that  the  time  had 
arrived  when  he  must  return  to  civilization.  He 
could  not  keep  Broome  with  him,  even  if  the  latter 
wished  to  stay.  He  saw  endless  possibilities  of 
pain  and  trouble  in  such  a  partnership.  And  since 
he  could  not  keep  him,  he  must  himself  go  before 
Broome  had  a  chance  to  make  any  explorations. 
His  heart  sank  at  the  prospect. 

"It  's  been  mighty  peaceful  here,  Jinny,"  he 
whispered  to  his  faithful  little  comrade,  who  dozed 
beside  him  in  the  firelight.  "We  '11  sure  miss  it." 

Jinny  shifted  her  weight  in  her  sleep,  and  her 
head  drooped  lower. 

"One  thing,  old  girl,"  Card  said,  regarding  her, 
whimsically,  "You  don't  have  to  think  about  it.  A 
man  's  different ;  he  knows  when  he  's  well  off,  and 
hates  to  leave  it." 

He  glanced  about  him.     The  firelight  touched 


THE  WELL  IN  THE  DESERT 

fitfully  the  encircling  trees,  the  great  rocks,  the 
open  door  of  the  shack  where  Broome  lay  asleep, 
the  gleaming  pool.  Above  in  the  violet  depths, 
blazed  the  dipper ;  how  many  times  he  had  watched 
it  patrol  the  sky ! 

"I  hate  to  go,"  he  whispered,  again,  "I  hate  to 
go,  Jinny;  but  good  as  't  is,  I  know  it  ain't  really 
life.  A  man  belongs  with  men.  They  may  be 
good  or  they  may  be  bad ;  but  a  man  's  got  to  take 
'em  as  he  meets  up  with  'em.  He  can't  be  a  real 
man  forever,  just  by  himself." 


CHAPTER  VII 

THE  first  touch  of  dawn  saw  Gard  awake  and 
stirring.  He  went  softly  about  the  glade, 
feeding  Jinny  in  her  little  corral  off  at  one  side, 
and  preparing  his  own  breakfast.  The  meal  fin- 
ished, he  left  food  where  his  guest  could  find  it, 
and  made  his  way  up  the  canon.  He  had  settled 
in  his  own  mind  that  if  Broome  was  able  to  travel 
they  should  leave  the  glade  on  the  following  day; 
but  there  was  first  something  that  he  must  do. 

The  forenoon  was  well  advanced  when  Broome 
stirred,  opened  his  eyes  and  sat  up  with  a  start. 
He  was  a  moment  or  two  realizing  his  surround- 
ings and  recalling  the.  events  that  had  brought  him 
to  this  place. 

He  sat  staring  at  the  cabin;  at  the  rough  mud- 
and-stone  walls;  the  primitive  fireplace;  the  rude 
furnishings,  and  finally  summed  up  his  impres- 
sions in  a  phrase : 

"Hell!    What  a  layout!" 

Then,  remembering  Card's  probable  proximity, 
he  went  heavily  to  the  door. 

86 


THE  WELL  IN  THE  DESERT 

There  was  no  one  in  sight.  In  the  big  outer 
fireplace  an  "Indian"  fire  smoldered,  guarded  on 
one  side  by  the  earthen  coffee-pot,  on  the  other  by 
the  big  kettle  of  beans.  On  the  table  were  a  bowl 
and  a  plate;  the  former  upside  down  over  some 
cakes  of  oat  bread.  Broome  welcomed  the  sight, 
for  he  was  hungry. 

"Wonder  where  the  patron  got  to  so  early,"  he 
muttered  as  he  fell  upon  the  food. 

He  ate  swinishly,  standing  before  the  fire,  and 
had  nearly  completed  his  meal  when  he  caught 
sight  of  the  inscription  Card  had  put  upon  the  cup 
from  which  he  was  drinking.  His  little  shifty 
eyes  studied  it  curiously  as  he  turned  the  cup 
about. 

"What  in  tunk  is  that  for?"  he  muttered,  per- 
plexed, and  when  he  had  managed  to  decipher  the 
words  he  nearly  dropped  the  little  vessel  in  his 
surprise. 

"T-h-e  c-u-p  o-f  f-o-r-g-i-v-e-n-e-s-s,"  he  spelled 
again,  holding  the  cup  up  to  the  light  and  feeling 
the  sunken  letters  with  one  hard  finger.  "Rummy 
kind  o'  cup  that  'd  be." 

He  stooped  to  refill  it  with  "coffee"  from  the 
blackened  pot  in  the  embers  and,  as  he  straightened 
up,  his  eye  met  another  inscription,  on  a  broad 
stone  beside  the  door  of  the  cabin.  He  read  it 
aloud,  laboriously : 

87 


THE  WELL  IN  THE  DESERT 

"Thou  wilt  keep  him  in  perfect  peace  whose 
mind  is  stayed  on  Thee" 

"  'Peace' — 'peace.' '  Broome  looked  about  him, 
half  dazed,  groping  in  the  void  of  his  own  spiritual 
habitation  for  an  explanation  of  what  he  saw. 

"There  's  sure  peace  good  an'  plenty  in  these 
diggings,"  he  muttered,  "if  that  's  what  a  man  's 
aimin'  to  locate;  peace  enough  to  drive  him  loco. 
Guess  that 's  what  ails  him.  He  must  be  a  jumpin' 
luny  to  go  scratchin'  round  like  this.  .  .  .  There  's 
another  one !" 

He  espied  it  on  the  wall  over  the  pallet  where  he 
had  slept. 

"I  will  both  lay  me  down  in  peace  and  sleep;  for 
Thou  Lord  only,  makest  me  dwell  in  safety." 

Card  had  written  that  the  day  after  the  night  of 
terror  when  storm  had  devastated  the  glade;  writ- 
ten it  remembering  how  his  mother  had  taught  it 
to  him,  an  imaginative  little  chap,  afraid  of  the 
dark.  He  had  been  saying  his  prayers  one  night, 
beside  his  cot  in  the  shed-chamber,  when  he  became 
afraid  the  SOMETHING  was  coming  through  the 
gloom  to  grab  him  from  behind  as  he  knelt.  His 
mother,  coming  to  tuck  him  up,  found  him  cower- 
ing under  the  blankets  and  winning  from  him  the 
secret  of  his  fright,  sat  down  beside  him  and  taught 
him  the  beautiful  verse.  Broome,  reading  it  now, 
experienced  a  feeling  of  dread. 

88 


THE  WELL  IN  THE  DESERT 

"Peace  again,"  he  growled,  "I  hope  he  gets 
peace  enough  with  all  his  bug-house  slate-writing. 
The  feller  's  hell  on  religion;  should  n't  wonder  if 
he  was  a  preacher." 

He  turned  away  with  an  awed  shiver. 

"Gosh!"  he  ejaculated,  "I  'm  glad  I  did  n't  see 
that  over  my  head  last  night.  I  could  n't  a'  slept 
a  wink." 

He  went  outside  again  to  fill  and  drink  another 
cup  of  acorn-coffee,  and  when  his  bodily  hunger 
was  satisfied  left  the  debris  of  his  meal  on  the 
hearth  and  wandered  about  the  glade,  seeking 
gratification  of  his  objective  curiosity. 

"Why!"  he  exclaimed,  when  he  discovered 
Jinny,  in  the  corral,  "The  patron  can't  be  far  off : 
he's  left  the  burro!" 

He  surveyed  Jinny  thoughtfully,  as  she  stood  at 
the  far  side  of  the  corral.  Then  he  wandered  over 
to  Card's  rude  pottery- factory. 

"I  'd  like  to  know  what  the  cuss  is  doin'  here," 
he  thought.  "He  Js  made  his  outfit  from  the 
ground  up." 

He  was  struck  by  that  as  he  continued  his  rov- 
ing scrutiny.  Card's  bow  and  arrows  fairly  fright- 
ened him. 

"That  fellow  's  clean  dotty,"  he  muttered. 
"What  in  thunder  kin  a  live  man  do  with  that  ?" 

Presently  he  found  the  first  knife  Card  had 


THE  WELL  IN  THE  DESERT 

fashioned,  laid  upon  a  ledge  of  the  camp  fireplace, 
and  turned  it  over  like  one  bewildered. 

"Shivering  spooks!"  he  swore,  softly;  "If  this 
ain't  an  outfit !  He  don't  look  like  a  'lunger/  "  he 
added,  referring  again  to  Card;  "nor  this  ain't  no 
prospector's  layout ;  nor  the  cuss  don't  seem  locoed 
— not  altogether.  It  's  what  I  thought.  He  's 
some  kind  of  a  preacher.  He  don't  cuss  none,  an* 
he  seemed  sorter  quiet  like  last  night.  He  did  n't 
act  just  like  it,  though,  neither." 

Born  of  desire,  another  idea  assailed  him. 
"Wonder  where  he  keeps  his  whiskey,"  he  mused. 
"That  was  a  hell  of  a  good  sample  he  showed  last 
night." 

He  began  to  search  more  systematically,  still 
keeping  an  alert  eye  for  Card's  possible  return. 

"They  ain't  no  hiding-place  outside,"  he  decided, 
and  turned  his  attention  once  more  to  the  cabin. 
He  had  no  idea  what  sort  of  a  receptacle  to  look 
for,  and  a  scrutiny  of  the  corners  revealed  nothing. 
He  crossed  the  room,  to  the  fireplace,  and  suddenly 
gave  a  little  start.  He  had  made  what  promised 
to  be  a  discovery. 

He  tiptoed  to  the  door :  no  one  was  in  sight,  but 
he  stepped  outside  and  again  made  the  round  of  the 
glade.  Coming  back,  he  took  the  precaution  to 
close  the  door  when  he  reentered  the  hut. 

At  the  fireplace  again,  he  stooped  and  put  both 
90 


THE  WELL  IN  THE  DESERT 

hands  upon  a  stone  half-way  up  one  side  of  the 
rude  chimney.  As  he  had  foreseen,  it  came  away 
in  response  to  a  little  lift— Card's  hiding-place  for 
his  treasure  had  been  a  most  casual  thing  at  best — 
and  a  recess  lay  revealed. 

Again  Broome  listened  for  sounds  outside,  ere 
he  lifted  first  one,  then  the  other,  of  the  two  buck- 
skin bags  that  lay  before  him. 

They  were  not  large ;  but  they  were  very  heavy, 
and  a  peep  into  one  revealed  the  yellow  gleam  that 
he  had  expected. 

The  little  eyes  glittered,  and  the  man's  fingers 
opened  and  shut,  clawlike,  but  he  closed  the  bag, 
tying  its  buckskin  string,  and  put  it  back.  There 
were  some  papers  with  the  bags,  but  he  would  look 
at  those  later. 

He  fitted  the  stone  back  into  place,  scrutinizing 
it  keenly  afterwards,  to  be  sure  that  he  had  left  no 
signs  of  his  meddling. 

"The  sneakin'  cuss!"  he  snarled,  moving  back 
from  the  chimney.  "He  's  got  a  mine  up  here! 
That 's  what  he  was  so  sly  about  last  night.  He  's 
gone  there  now,  an'  he  thinks  he  '11  keep  me  out  of 
it.  I  '11  bet  he  's  up  there  covering  his  tracks." 

He  was  outside,  now,  muttering  wrath  fully. 
"No  ye  don't,  my  smart  coyote,"  he  sneered,  "Yer 
kin  just  bet  yer  sweet  life  Thad  Broome  sits  in  this 
game,  sure !" 

91 


THE  WELL  IN  THE  DESERT 

He  went  the  rounds  again,  scouting  eagerly,  till 
his  trained  plainsman's  eyes  detected  a  faint  trail 
leading  over  the  rocks  at  one  side  of  the  stream. 

It  was  but  the  suggestion  of  a  pathway,  trodden 
by  Card's  moccasined  feet,  but  it  was  enough  for 
the  pryer's  sharpened  senses.  A  moment  later 
Broome  had  skirted  the  pool,  and  was  hot  on  the 
scent. 

The  trail  grew  clearer  as  he  followed  it,  and  he 
pressed  on,  a  growing  rage  in  his  heart,  toward 
the  man  who  had  found  a  good  thing  and  was 
keeping  him  out  of  it,  after  all  that  he  had  suf- 
fered. Curiously  enough,  it  was  only  his  own  part 
in  yesterday's  adventure  that  he  remembered. 
Card's  agency  in  his  rescue  and  present  safety  was 
forgotten  or  ignored. 

Half  an  hour's  cautious  travel,  and  his  ear 
caught  a  sound  somewhere  beyond.  He  crept  on 
stealthily  from  one  sheltering  boulder  to  another, 
keeping  carefully  out  of  sight,  until  at  last,  clam- 
bering upon  a  shelving  rock,  he  peered  down  upon 
Card  at  work  below  him. 

The  canon  was  very  deep  here,  its  walls  tower- 
ing, bare  and  grim,  hundreds  of  feet  in  air.  A 
great  mass  of  piled-up  rock  nearly  bridged  the 
stream,  and  Broome  could  plainly  see  the  nature 
of  the  vein  that  had  been  laid  bare.  Its  promise 
fairly  made  him  gasp. 

92 


THE  WELL  IN  THE  DESERT 

He  could  see,  as  well,  what  Card  was  doing. 

On  the  face  of  the  rock,  close  beside  the  open- 
ing where  he  had  worked  the  claim,  he  had 
scratched  his  location  notice,  roughly  enough,  with 
his  inadequate  tools,  but  in  letters  perfectly  legible, 
defining  clearly  the  boundaries  of  his  claim  as  he 
had  staked  it  out. 

Having  done  this,  he  had  gone  over  the  letters 
again,  with  charcoal,  until  they  stared  in  inerasable 
distinctness  from  the  rock.  Now  he  stood  at  a 
little  distance,  regarding  his  finished  work. 

"The  damned,  sneakin'  swine,"  muttered  the 
watcher.  "I  '11  git  even  with  him ;  he  's  staked  the 
mother-lode." 

He  leaned  forward  eagerly  to  watch,  as  Card 
moved  toward  the  opening  in  the  rock.  What  was 
he  going  to  do  next  ? 

He  saw  him  stoop  for  something,  and  crept 
nearer  the  edge  of  the  rock,  forgetful  of  conceal- 
ment. Attracted  by  some  slight  sound  Card  sud- 
denly glanced  up  and  looked  the  spy  full  in  the 
face.  In  an  instant  Broome  had  sprung  upon  him 
and  was  clutching  at  the  mattock  which  the  other 
had  just  picked  up. 

"Think  yer  goin'  ter  kill  me  with  that,  do  yer?" 
Broome  snarled.  "I  '11  show  yer!"  He  struck  at 
Card's  eyes,  at  the  same  time  striving  to  wrench 
the  tool  from  him. 

93 


THE  WELL  IN  THE  DESERT 

Half  blinded  by  the  onslaught,  the  other  clinched, 
instinctively,  with  his  foe,  and  a  grim  battle  began. 

Back  and  forth  it  raged,  across  the  bit  of  sandy 
floor  at  the  base  of  the  rocks,  each  man  striving 
for  possession  of  the  tool. 

Broome  was  powerfully  built,  and  he  had  rested 
from  the  agony  of  the  day  before.  He  was  the 
heavier  of  the  two,  and  he  fought  with  an  insane 
fury  that  pressed  his  antagonist  back  against  the 
cliff  before  Card  had  well  recovered  from  the 
shock  of  his  attack. 

Fiercely,  silently  the  two  struggled  until  Card, 
momentarily  securing  the  mattock,  flung  it  afar 
upon  the  sand.  Broome  gave  a  shriek  of  savage 
rage,  and  would  have  sprung  for  it,  but  the  other 
man  closed  upon  him  and  caught  him  with  one 
powerful  arm  about  the  neck,  pressing  his  face 
earthward. 

Desperately  Broome  grasped  the  other's  body, 
striving  to  break  that  iron  hold,  but  Card's  blood 
was  up,  and  he  "saw  red,"  as  his  free  arm  rained 
blows  upon  the  other's  back. 

Strain  as  he  would  Broome  could  not  break 
free,  nor  trip  his  foe.  The  fellow  seemed  made  of 
iron,  and  the  hammering  of  that  fearful  fist  was 
driving  the  breath  from  his  body.  He  gathered  his 
forces  for  a  last  effort,  but  his  breath  already  came 
in  gasps,  and  he  sank  in  a  heap  upon  the  sand. 

94 


THE  WELL  IN  THE  DESERT 

Card  hauled  him  to  his  feet,  fiercely. 

"Stand  up !"  he  shouted,  as  he  faced  him  about. 

Broome  would  have  fallen  again,  but  Card  up- 
held him,  forcing  him  forward  over  the  rocks,  back 
toward  camp.  Once  he  turned,  as  if  he  would 
strike,  but  a  glance  at  that  fierce,  set  face  herded 
him  on  again,  cowed  and  stumbling. 

"What  are  ye  goin'  ter  do  to  me?"  he  de- 
manded, at  last,  tortured  by  Card's  silence.  There 
was  no  reply. 

"I  've  as  good  a  right  in  the  canon  as  you," 
Broome  persisted.  He  was  in  that  state  of  hyster- 
ical strain  that  could  not  refrain  from  speech. 

"I  would  n't  have  touched  ye  if  ye  had  n't  come 
at  me  with  that  pick,"  he  lied.  Still  not  a  word 
from  Card,  and  Broome  kept  quiet  till  they 
reached  camp,  and  Gard  produced  a  rope. 

It  was  the  same  with  which  he  had  dragged  the 
fellow  from  the  sand  the  day  before ;  the  loop  that 
had  been  about  his  body  was  still  in  one  end.  The 
cowman  shrieked  when  he  saw  it. 

"What  are  ye  goin'  to  do  to  me  ?"  he  screamed. 
"By  God!  You  tell  me!  What 's  that  thing  fer ?" 

He  sprang  upon  Gard  again,  and  was  tossed 
back  like  a  child.  A  moment  later  he  was  lying 
upon  the  ground,  bound  hand  and  foot,  and  Gard 
towered  above  him. 

"What  am  I  going  to  do  with  you?"  he  asked, 

95 


THE  WELL  IN  THE  DESERT 

in  cold  scorn;  "What  would  you  do  to  me,  if  I 
was  where  you  are  ?" 

Broome  glared  his  hate,  and  fear.  "Yah!"  he 
snarled,  "I  'd  kill  yer.  I  '11  kill  yer  yet,  if  yer  don't 
look  out." 

For  reply  the  other  gathered  him  up,  dragged 
him  into  the  cabin  and  threw  him  upon  the  bed 
there.  Then  he  went  outside. 

Card  was  in  a  state  of  amazement.  He  looked 
at  his  own  brown  hands,  and  rolling  up  a  sleeve 
of  his  buckskin  shirt  gazed  upon  his  own  right 
arm,  lean,  sinewy,  knotted  with  iron  muscles.  He 
contracted,  then  relaxed  it,  slowly,  and  finally 
struck  himself  a  resounding  blow  on  the  chest. 
Then  he  laughed,  under  his  breath. 

"And  all  this  time/'  he  said,  in  a  sort  of  wonder, 
"I  've  thought  I  was  a  rather  sick  man." 

He  walked  over  to  the  corral  where  Jinny's 
shaggy  head  showed  over  the  barrier.  There  was 
keen  joy  in  his  swift  stride,  and  in  the  new  sense 
of  power,  and  physical  well-being,  that  filled  him. 

"Jinny,"  he  said,  tweaking  one  of  the  long  ears 
pricked  forward  to  welcome  him,  "I  guess  the 
right  place  for  me  is  here  in  the  corral." 

He  regarded  the  little  burro  thoughtfully. 

"I  hate  to  break  it  to  you,  old  girl,"  he  went  on, 
"But  you  've  got  to  carry  that  load  of  dirt  and 

96 


THE  WELL  IN  THE  DESERT 

poison  down  to  the  desert  again.  It  's  the  only 
way." 

He  turned  again  and  busied  himself  about  the 
camp,  clearing  away  the  debris  of  Broome's  meal, 
and  putting  the  place  to  rights.  He  brought  out 
the  largest  of  his  willow  baskets,  one  that  he  had 
made  to  fit  Jinny's  back,  and  proceeded  to  fill  it 
from  his  food-stores.  Broome,  within  the  shack, 
watched  his  movements  whenever  he  came  within 
range,  but  he  had  learned  his  lesson,  and  asked  no 
questions.  Later  in  the  day  Gard  brought  him 
food,  and  released  his  hands  that  he  might  eat, 
but  neither  man  spoke,,  and  when  Broome  had 
finished  eating  his  captor  bound  him  again. 

Dusk  was  falling  when  Gard  next  came  into  the 
cabin.  He  had  changed  his  buckskin  garments  for 
those  he  had  worn  two  years  before.  He  had  been 
saving  them  for  such  a  day  of  need. 

"I  'm  going  to  untie  your  feet,"  he  said  to 
Broome,  "and  you  're  coming  outside." 

He  did  as  he  had  said,  and  Broome  followed 
him  out. 

Jinny  stood  there,  equipped  with  a  home-made 
bridle  and  a  sort  of  saddle  of  deer-skin.  Leaning 
against  a  rock  was  a  hamper  closely  packed.  Gard 
had  put  out  the  big  camp-fire  and  the  place  already 
wore  an  air  of  desolation. 

7  97 


THE  WELL  IN  THE  DESERT 

Inside  the  cabin,  alone,  Card  looked  about  with 
poignant  regret. 

"It  's  sure  time  to  go,"  he  told  himself,  sorrow- 
fully, "But  I  hate  to." 

He  turned  to  the  hiding-place  in  the  chimney 
and  secured  the  buckskin  bags,  and  the  papers. 

"There  's  that  to  attend  to,  too,"  he  murmured, 
fumbling  the  rumpled  and  stained  sheets. 

"It 's  been  a  good  place,"  he  thought,  as  he  shut 
the  door  of  the  shelter,  and  looked  about  outside. 
"To  think  what  I  was  when  I  came  here.  What- 
ever. .  .  .  yes,  it 's  the  truth :  it 's  been  the  making 
of  me." 

He  came  and  stood  beside  Broome. 

"You  get  on  the  burro,"  he  said. 

The  man  demurred.  "I  'd  rather  walk,"  he  ob- 
jected. 

"I  did  n't  ask  you  what  you  'd  rather  do,"  was 
the  reply.  Card  was  in  no  mood  to  bandy  words, 
and  a  look  at  his  face  convinced  the  other  that 
obedience  was  best. 

When  he  was  settled  Gard  proceeded  to  blind- 
fold him,  whereat  the  cowman  swore  fiercely  under 
his  breath. 

"I  '11  tell  you  now,  Broome,"  Gard  said,  when 
he  felt  sure  that  the  blindfold  was  secure,  "You  Ve 
got  nothing  to  be  afraid  of  long  's  you  behave 
yourself.  I  won't  leave  you  in  the  desert,  but  I  '11 

98 


THE  WELL  IN  THE  DESERT 

run  no  risk  of  your  ever  finding  your  way  back 
here.  You  wear  that  blind  till  I  see  fit  to  take  it 
off,  and  that  '11  be  when  we  're  good  and  well  away 
on  the  plain." 

He  shouldered  the  willow  hamper. 

"Come  along,  Jinny,"  he  said,  without  looking 
around  again,  and  in  the  gathering  dusk  the  outfit 
took  its  way  down  the  dry  wash  to  the  desert. 

END  OF  BOOK  ONE 


99 


BOOK  TWO 
THE  SIN-BUSTER 


CHAPTER  I 

IT  was  supper-time  at  the  Sylvania  Palace  Grille. 
Sylvania  was  an  outfitting  town  for  prospectors 
and  cow-punchers,  and  the  occupants  of  the  little 
oilcloth-covered  tables  in  the  "Grille"  were  almost 
exclusively  of  these  two  classes.  The  telephone 
operator  and  the  express-agent  had  already  taken 
their  meal,  and  their  departure,  and  this  was  not 
the  day  for  the  tri-weekly  stage,  the  driver  of 
which  sometimes  patronized  Mrs.  Hallard's  rotis- 
serie. 

Sing  Fat  and  Sing  Gong,  the  two  Chinese  wait- 
ers, slipped  about  attending  to  the  demands  of 
patrons,  and  Mrs.  Hallard  herself,  from  behind  a 
counter,  kept  tabs  on  the  room  and  set  out  the 
liquid  refreshments  that  the  various  customers 
called  for. 

The  place  was  full  of  noise  and  bustle.  The 
rattle  of  heavy  crockery,  the  clink,  of  steel  knives 
and  forks,  the  raking  of  boots  and  spurs  over  the 
plank  floor,  the  clamor  of  voices  and  the  monoto- 


THE  WELL  IN  THE  DESERT 

nous  sing-song  of  the  two  Chinese  calling  orders 
to  the  cook,  made  up  a  medley  in  which,  Mrs.  Hal- 
lard  was  wont  to  declare,  she  could  hardly  hear 
herself  think. 

Despite  this  handicap,  however,  very  little  es- 
caped her.  She  managed  to  hear,  with  no  apparent 
difficulty,  Steve  Salton's  gently  preferred  request 
that  she  "chalk  up"  the  amount  of  his  bill,  and  to 
catch  his  mumbled  replies  to  her  swift  interroga- 
tories as  to  his  prospects  for  paying. 

"It  's  all  right  if  you  're  going  to  have  it,"  she 
said,  with  business-like  crispness.  "But  I  ain't 
here  for  my  health,  you  know.  I  want  to  see  the 
color  of  your  dust  before  too  long." 

"That 's  reasonable,"  was  Steve's  reply.  "You  '11 
see  yer  pay  O.  K.  soon  's  I  locate,  an'  I  'm  bound  to 
when-" 

"Cut  it  out !"  Mrs.  Hallard  was  already  pushing 
change  across  the  counter  to  another  customer. 
"It  's  chalked  up,  Steve." 

"Kate !  oh,  Kate !"  The  voice  of  an  old  habitue 
came  across  the  bedlam  of  sound:  "Tell  one  o' 
them  pigtailed  lumps  o'  sin,"  it  went  on,  "to  fetch 
me  another  pony  o'  that  white  pizen  o'  your'n, 
quicker !" 

"Gong,"  the  presiding  genius  of  the  place  said 
calmly  to  one  of  the  China  boys,  "Go  tell  Tombstone 
he  don't  need  no  more  gin.    Tell  'im  I  said  so." 
104 


THE  WELL  IN  THE  DESERT 

Gong  carried  the  message,  delivering  it  over  his 
shoulder  as  he  set  another  customer's  order  of 
"ham  and"  before  him.  Tombstone's  face,  when 
he  received  it,  was  worthy  of  his  name. 

"Hell!"  he  ejaculated  to  anyone  who  might 
listen,  "That  's  what  comes  o'  hashin'  off  'n  a 
woman." 

He  was  still  muttering  gloomily  when  he  went 
up  to  the  desk  to  pay  his  score. 

"Kate,"  he  said  with  drunken  gravity,  as  he 
swayed  before  her,  "The  love  o'  tyranny  's  a  bad 
thing  in  a  man.  It 's  plumb  perilous  fer  a  female." 

Mrs.  Hallard  glanced  from  his  money  to  him. 

"What  's  eatin'  you,  Tombstone?"  she  de- 
manded, ringing  up  the  cash-register. 

"  'T  ain't  me.  It  's  you,  The  love  o'  power  air 
devourin'  you  to  that  extent  you  can't  serve  a  man 
his  rations  without  cuttin'  'em  short.  It  were 
plumb  tyrannical  in  you  to  send  me  that  there  mes- 
sage about  the  gin." 

Mrs.  Hallard's  handsome  black  eyes  surveyed 
him  coldly. 

"When  a  gent  's  that  far  in  he  goes  howlin' 
a  lady's  Christian  name  in  public  like  you  done  just 
now,"  she  said,  "it 's  a  sign  he  don't  need  no  more 
at  present.  There  's  your  change,  Tombstone. 
Now  vamose !" 

"Jake  Lowrey!"  she  sent  her  voice  level  across 

105 


THE  WELL  IN  THE  DESERT 

the  reeking  room  to  where  a  big,  shaggy  miner 
was  disputing  with  one  of  the  Chinamen,  "This 
here  's  an  eatin'-house.  'T  ain't  a  cussin'  bee.  If 
you  don't  like  the  victuals  served  you,  you  know 
what  you  kin  do.  But  while  you  're  in  here  you 
quit  swearin'." 

"I  ain't  a  cussin'  fer  cussin's  sake,"  the  big  miner 
pleaded,  above  the  laughter  of  the  others.  "I  'm 
only  inquirin'  into  the  nature  o'  this  here  sunny- 
side  Fat 's  fetched  me  with  my  hash." 

"What  color  is  it  ?"  the  proprietor  of  the  eating- 
house  asked,  and  the  egg  on  Jake's  plate  imme- 
diately became  the  center  of  all  attention. 

"It  's  yeller,"  its  owner  called,  surveying  it 
critically. 

"Naw  't  ain't  neither;  it  's  red,"  another  ob- 
server decided. 

"It 's  a  lie.  It 's  just  the  color  of  an  orange,  an* 
oranges  is  yeller,  ain't  they?"  This  from  a  third 
critic. 

"If  it  's  yeller  it  's  a  new-laid  egg,"  Mrs.  Hal- 
lard  pronounced,  judicially.  "If  it  's  red,  it  's  a 
fresh  egg.  Any  other  hen-fruit  in  this  place  is 
ranch  eggs,  unless  it 's  chickens,  an'  we  don't  serve 
them  on  the  half-shell." 

During  the  silence  that  followed  this  elucidation 
of  the  egg  question  the  outside  door  of  the  place 
opened  hesitatingly,  and  a  young  Mexican  girl 

106 


THE  WELL  IN  THE  DESERT 

looked  in.  Mrs.  Hallard  nodded,  and  she  entered, 
leading  by  the  hand  a  blind  countryman  who  car- 
ried a  guitar.  The  pair  were  evidently  well  known 
to  Mrs.  Hallard's  patrons,  and  through  the  thick 
cloud  of  tobacco  smoke  that  filled  the  room  a  num- 
ber of  the  men  shouted  their  greetings. 

"Buenos  noches,  Conchita." 

"Howdy,  Buttercup." 

"Put  her  here,  'Chita!" 

The  girl  responded  to  each  greeting  with  a  flash 
of  white  teeth.  A  number  of  new-comers  flocked 
in  after  her,  finding  seats  and  shouting  their  orders 
to  the  China-boys. 

"Come  on,  'Chita,  hit  'er  up !"  some  one  called. 

The  girl  had  guided  her  companion  to  a  chair,  and 
the  latter  now  twanged  a  few  notes  upon  his  guitar. 
Presently  Conchita  began  to  dance,  slowly,  at  first, 
gradually  quickening  the  pace,  as  she  flitted  back 
and  forth  in  the  little  open  space  before  the  counter. 

By  degrees  this  space  became  too  confined  for 
her  movements,  and  she  drifted,  like  a  bit  of  thistle- 
down, along  the  aisles  between  the  tables. 

When  she  came  opposite  Jake  Lowrey  she  gave  a 
quick  little  leap  and  sprang  upon  the  table  before 
him,  where  she  pirouetted  among  the  bottles  of 
condiments,  and  the  tall  glass  of  beer  over  which 
he  was  lingering.  She  skirted  them  all,  daintily, 
her  twinkling  feet  never  still. 

107 


THE  WELL  IN  THE  DESERT 

Suddenly  she  paused,  balancing  marvelously 
upon  one  toe,  the  other  outstretched  before  the 
man.  Lowrey's  hand  was  already  in  his  pocket, 
now  it  came  out  holding  a  silver  coin  which  he 
placed  upon  the  outstretched  toe.  In  an  instant  it 
was  snapped  into  the  air  and  caught  by  the'  whirl- 
ing dancer  as  it  came  down.  A  chorus  went  up 
from  the  assembly. 

"Here  y'  are,  Conchita!"  "You  know  me, 
'Chita."  "Put 'er  here,  little  gal!"  The  men  bid 
openly  for  the  dancer's  favor,  making  haste  to 
clear  their  tables  as  an  inducement  for  her  to 
notice  them. 

She  sprang  from  Jake's  table  to  another,  across 
the  aisle,  and  repeated  her  graceful,  agile  perform- 
ance, weaving  in  and  out  among  the  dishes,  kissing 
her  fingers  and  smiling.  Thus  she  wandered  from 
table  to  table,  picking  her  favorites  and  taking  toll 
of  each,  going  wilfully,  it  seemed,  from  silver  lure 
held  plainly  in  sight,  to  tables  where  much  less  was 
offered. 

In  and  out  she  flashed,  now  here,  now  there, 
until  it  became  apparent  to  all  that  she  was  work- 
ing, step  by  step,  toward  the  one  table  whose  occu- 
pant had  extended  no  invitation. 

This  one  was  in  a  corner  of  the  room,  and  at  it 
sat  a  young  man  who  was  to  all  appearances 
neither  a  prospector  nor  a  cowboy,  though  he  wore 

1 08 


THE  WELL  IN  THE  DESERT 

a  certain  indefinable  air  of  the  plain.  It  showed  in 
the  bronze  of  his  face,  where  it  was  not  covered 
by  a  crisp  brown  beard,  of  a  cut  not  worn  by  the 
usual  desert-dweller;  in  his  big,  strong,  tanned 
hands,  that  were  supple  and  deft,  despite  the  marks 
of  hard  work  upon  them,  and  in  the  steady,  far- 
seeing  gaze  of  his  brown  eyes. 

The  little  dancer  was  close  to  the  stranger's 
table  now,  and  bending  low  to  avoid  a  hanging 
lamp,  she  sprang  upon  it,  and  calling  something  to 
the  guitar-player,  set  her  feet  a-twinkle  through 
a  bewildering  maze  of  perfectly  calculated  steps. 

She  glided  about  the  edge  of  her  tiny  stage ;  she 
blew  lightly  across  it;  she  whirled  madly  in  the 
centre  of  it.  Everyone  in  the  room  gazed,  spell- 
bound, realizing  that  their  pet  dancer  was  outdoing 
herself  on  this  occasion. 

Through  it  all  the  girl's  eyes  never  left  the  face 
that  was  upturned  to  her  gaze,  the  brown  eyes  re- 
garding her  with  a  sort  of  consideration  that  no 
others  in  the  room  had  shown.  Admiration,  chal- 
lenge, desire,  those  other  eyes  had  betrayed,  but 
these  were  different.  Their  quiet  questioning  held 
no  reproach ;  they  were  full  of  friendliness,  and  of 
interest,  and  the  coin  that  was  presently  laid  upon 
her  out-thrust  toe  was  cheerfully,  even  gaily  prof- 
fered, but  the  girl  suddenly  felt  that  both  the  in- 
terest and  the  gaiety  were  different  from  her  own. 

109 


THE  WELL  IN  THE  DESERT 

She  tossed  the  silver  dollar  in  air  and  caught  it, 
with  a  nod  of  thanks.  Then  she  sprang  to  the 
floor  and  ran  up  the  aisle  to  where  the  blind  Mexi- 
can still  strummed  his  guitar  strings. 

"Este  bestante!"  she  cried,  pouring  her  earnings 
into  his  deep-crowned  hat.  "No  mas." 

She  kissed  her  fingers  gaily  to  the  applauding 
men  and  turned  toward  the  door.  Only  Kate  Hal- 
lard's  keen  eyes  noted,  without  seeming  to  see,  that 
she  had  knotted  one  silver  coin  into  a  corner  of  her 
kerchief,  and  slipped  it  into  her  bosom. 

No  more  visitors  came  into  the  Palace  Grille. 
Sylvania  had  supped,  and  the  men  at  the  tables 
one  by  one  came  forward  when  the  girl  had  gone, 
to  pay  their  bills  and  slip  out  into  the  street.  In 
the  shortest  of  five  minutes  all  were  gone  save  the 
stranger  in  the  corner,  and  the  two  Chinese,  who 
padded  softly  about,  putting  the  place  to  rights. 

Kate  Hallard  had  seen  the  stranger  throughout 
mealtime.  She  noted,  moreover,  that  he  had  more 
than  one  glance  for  her,  the  while  he  sat  taking 
his  supper  in  a  deft,  dainty  way  that  some  men  get 
from  much  eating  out  of  doors. 

She  was  accustomed  to  being  watched.  More 
than  one  habitue  of  the  place  had  taken  his  turn 
at  gazing  at  her,  during  the  year  that  she  had  been 
running  the  Palace  Grille.  She  was  not  unpleasant 
to  look  at,  if  a  man  were  not  over-sensitive  about 

no 


THE  WELL  IN  THE  DESERT 

some  things.  She  had  an  abundance  of  fair  hair 
that  was  not  bleached,  despite  the  contrast  of  her 
black,  long-lashed  eyes.  They  were  handsome 
eyes,  if  bolder  and  harder  than  they  might  have 
been  if  life  itself  had  been  less  hard  and  bold  for 
this  woman  of  the  desert. 

That  it  had  been  hard  was  told  by  the  cold, 
steady  gaze  of  the  dark  eyes ;  by  the  worn  line  of 
the  cheek,  and  by  the  half  contemptuous,  half  toler- 
ant set  of  thin  lips  that  ought  still  to  be  full,  and 
curved,  and  red. 

As  she  glanced  over  at  the  stranger,  when  both 
the  boys  were  out  of  the  room,  he  left  his  seat  and 

came  down  to  the  counter.    He  was  taller  than  she 

• 

had  thought,  she  noted,  and  very  slender.  Despite 
this  latter  fact,  however,  he  gave  an  impression  of 
more  than  usual  strength  and  activity.  "He  'd  be 
one  blame  hard  man  to  down,"  she  thought,  in  the 
instant  before  he  was  leaning  upon  the  counter, 
tendering  the  price  of  his  meal. 

"This  must  be  a  mighty  uncomfortable  life  for  a 
woman,"  he  said  in  a  matter  of  fact  way,  watching 
her  register  the  payment. 

"Mebby,"  she  answered,  shortly.  '  He  spoke 
again,  with  a  sort  of  gentle  persistence. 

"I  should  n't  think  you  'd  care  much  about  it  ?" 
There  was  a  questioning  quality  in  his  voice,  that 
Mrs.  Hallard  felt  would  presently  win  an  answer, 

in 


THE  WELL  IN  THE  DESERT 

whether  she  would  or  no.  She  went  on  "ridding 
up"  the  counter,  and  set  a  bottle  of  "square- face" 
back  on  the  shelf  behind  her,  with  rather  unneces-^ 
sary  energy. 

"Don't  know  as  my  caring  about  it  would  make 
any  difference,"  she  finally  said.  "Leastways  it 
never  made  none  to  me,  an'  I  guess  it  need  n't  to 
nobody  else."  This  last  was  said  with  some  sig- 
nificance of  emphasis. 

"I  know,"  the  stranger  spoke  half  absently. 
"But  I  'd  have  thought,"  he  continued,  looking  up, 
"that  you  would  have  preferred  to  keep  to  the 
range." 

A  startled  look  came  into  the  hard  black  eyes. 

"What  do  you  mean?"  Kate  Hallard  cried. 
"What  do  you  know  about  the  range?  Who  be 
you,  anyway?" 

"Did  you. sell  it?"  the  stranger  persisted,  ignor- 
ing her  questions. 

"Sell  it !"  she  burst  out,  shrilly.  "If  you  know 
anything  about  it,  you  know  I  never  got  a  chance 
to  sell  it.  It  melted ;  it  never  got  to  be  mine." 

Her  voice  had  risen  until  the  sound  brought  Sing 
Fat  in  from  the  kitchen  to  observe.  Seeing  this, 
she  lowered  it. 

"Look  a*  here,  Mister,"  she  .said,  sharply,  "If 
you  're  as  wise  as  you  're  tryin'  to  make  out,  you 
know  how  I  got  done  outer  the  range." 

112 


THE  WELL  IN  THE  DESERT 

"I  honestly  don't  know,"  was  the  reply.  "I 
found  your  deed,  and  I  've  been  hunting  you  up 
to  give  it  to  you." 

She  stared  at  him,  in  a  sort  of  awe. 

"You  found  that  deed?"  she  whispered. 

"Yes ;  I  have  it.  But  how  did  you  lose  the  prop- 
erty?" 

She  left  off  her  desultory  arranging  of  bottles, 
and  leaned  toward  him,  across  the  counter. 

"Hallard  bought  the  range  off'n  an  Easterner 
named  Oliphant,"  she  began.  "He  was  goin'  to 
stock  it,  an'  then  you  'd  never  a'  seen  me  here. 
He  's  got  the  deed  all  square,  an'  he  leaves  it  with 
me  till  he  goes  down  to  Phcenix  to  record  it. 
Then  he  goes  and  gits  killed  bustin'  an  outlaw 
horse  fer  Hod  Granger,  and  leaves  me  to  manage 
fer  myself." 

The  stranger  uttered  a  little  murmur  of  sym- 
pathy. 

"But  you  had  the  deed,"  he  suggested,  as  Mrs. 
Hallard  seemed  lost  in  thought. 

"Oh,  yes!  I  had  it  all  right.  But  I  give  it  to 
Frank  Arnold  to  record  fer  me.  He  was  goin' 
down  to  Phcenix,  an'  I  guess  they  was  some  hoo- 
doo onto  it  ;fer  Frank,  he  got  killed  too— got  killed 
in  a  cloudburst— an'  when  they  found  his  body 
every  bone  in  it  was  broke  an'  they  was  hardly  a 
rag  onto  it.  So  the  deed  was  lost." 


THE  WELL  IN  THE  DESERT 

"But  surely  this  man  Oliphant  would  have  made 
it  right  for  you?" 

"Would  he  though?  That  's  where  you  ain't 
guessin'  right."  Mrs.  Hallard's  laugh  had  no 
mirth  in  it. 

"That  's  what  they  told  me,"  she  said.  "An'  so 
I  see  a  lawyer,  an'  he  undertakes  to  write  Oliphant, 
that 's  gone  back  east.  But  after  a  spell  he  comes 
an'  tells  me  the  sneakin'  thief  's  gone  an'  sold  that 
prop'ty  twice,  an'  cleared  out.  Think  o'  that,  will 
you,  an'  him  a  old,  old  man.  .  .  .  Out  here  fer  his 
health,  he  was.  Lord!  if  he  don't  need  a  hotter 
climate  'n  even  this  is." 

"Was  the  second  deed  recorded  ?" 

"You  bet  your  life  it  was.  The  man  that  'd 
bought  it  saw  to  that,  an'  he  did  n't  have  the  luck 
to  git  killed,  neither." 

"I  must  say  he  tried  to  act  decent,  though,"  Mrs. 
Hallard  added,  "but  o'  course  he  'd  paid  his  money 
fer  the  prop'ty,  same  's  Ed  Hallard  did,  an'  Ed,  he 
paid  twelve  thousand." 

"Yes,  I  know."  The  stranger  had  the  deed  in 
his  hand.  "What  did  the  man  do  for  you?"  he 
asked. 

"Well  :not  much,  but  mebby  he  would  n't  a'  done 
that  if  it  had  n't  bin  fer  Mr.  Westcott— " 

"Who  did  you  say?"  The  stranger's  gentle 
voice  suddenly  sharpened  to  keen  interest. 

114 


THE  WELL  IN  THE  DESERT 

"Ash  Westcott.  He  was  my  lawyer,"  Mrs.  Hal- 
lard  explained. 

"It  was  he  who  told  you  about  the  second  sale?" 

"Sure!    How  else 'd  I  know?" 

"I  see."  He  stood  pondering  her  story  until  at 
last  she  took  up  the  tale  again. 

"Mr.  Westcott— he  talked  it  over  with  the  man 
that  bought  it.  I  did  n't  have  nothin'  but  my  word 
to  back  me;  an'  as  he  told  me,  I  really  could  n't 
make  a  claim,  an'  I  did  n't  have  no  case  to  go  after 
Oliphant  with.  But  the  other  feller  he  give  me 
three  hundred  dollars  fer  a  quit  claim,  an'  that  set 
me  up  here." 

"You  gave  a  quit  claim?" 

"Just  to  make  the  man  feel  easy.  Westcott  said 
it  'd  be  the  best  way.  He  was  mighty  kind  about 
raisin'  the  money  fer  me.  I  had  n't  a  red  after  I  'd 
settled  up  Ed's  debts  an'  small  matters." 

"Here  's  your  deed." 

She  took  it,  eagerly,  and  they  pored  over  it  to- 
gether. The  stranger  pointed  to  a  signature  at  the 
end  of  the  acknowledgment. 

"Do  you  know  that  man  ?"  he  asked. 

She  studied  the  name.  "Never  hearn  of  him," 
she  said,  "What 's  he  got  to  do  with  it?" 

"He  was  the  notary  before  whom  the  deed  was 
acknowledged,"  was  the  reply.  "If  we  could  get 
hold  of  him  we  might  learn  something,  and  I  think 


THE  WELL  IN  THE  DESERT 

it  would  pay  you  to  try  to  find  out  something 
from  Oliphant." 

"I  don't  know  where  he  is,"  was  the  bitter  re- 
sponse, "an'  if  I  did,  I  tell  you  I  ain't  got  a  cent 
to  do  anything  with.  I  ain't  more  'n  makin'  a 
livin'  here." 

"I  guess  that  could  be  fixed,"  the  stranger  said. 
"I  Ve  got  some." 

She  looked  him  over,  fixedly,  with  her  black 
eyes. 

"An'  where  do  you  come  in  ?"  she  demanded. 

He  laughed,  ever  so  gently. 

"I  'm  not  figuring  about  that,"  he  answered. 
"But  if  I  were  you,  and  could  get  hold  of  the  money 
to  do  it,  I  'd  try  and  see  this  thing  through ;  and," 
he  added,  significantly,  "I  guess  I  'd  hunt  up  some 
other  lawyer  than  this  Mr.  Westcott." 

He  met  her  gaze  without  hesitation. 

"There  's  some  folks  does  say  Westcott 's  sharp," 
she  said,  slowly.  "Be  you  one  of  'em  ?" 

The  man  smiled,  without  speaking. 

"I  don't  believe  it,"  Kate  Hallard  mused.  "He 
would  n't  dare.  Besides,"  she  added,  after  a  little 
thought,  "he  'd  a  known  he  was  fair  skinnin'  me, 
and  he  was  the  one  tried  to  see  to  it  I  had  a  little 
money  out'n  it.  He  would  n't  a'  taken  my  last 
nickel." 

A  strange  look  came  into  the  man's  face. 
116 


THE  WELL  IN  THE  DESERT 

"Maybe  he  did  n't  spend  much  time  reflecting  on 
that,"  he  said,  slowly.  "Anyway,  if  I  were  you 
I  'd  see  about  it,  and  I  guess  the  money  can  be 
found." 

"You  ain't  told  me  yet  who  you  be,"  Kate  Hal- 
lard  remarked,  studying  him  narrowly. 

"My  name  is  Gabriel  Card." 

"Well,  Mister  Gabriel  Gard,"  she  said,  "I  never 
hearn  of  you  before,  an'  I  ain't  sure  I  understand 
as  well  's  I  wanter  before  I  make  any  deals." 

"You  can  trust  me,"  Gard  said,  simply,  meeting 
her  eyes.  . 

"And  this  Westcott,"  she  exclaimed,  sharply, 
"If  he  's  done  me  so !  If  he  has—" 

She  gripped  the  counter,  her  teeth  showing,  sav- 
agely. 

"Easy!"  said  Gard  quietly,  "Better  keep  cool. 
The  man  ain't  worth  riling  yourself  up  over.  Be- 
sides, I  believe  we  can  do  something,  with  this." 

He  touched  the  deed,  and  she  picked  it  up  again. 

"I  want  to  try  to  get  hold  of  Oliphant,"  he  be- 
gan, outlining  his  plan,  "and  this  notary,  Arthur 
Sawyer." 

Kate  Hallard  regarded  him  with  an  unwonted 
expression  of  mingled  helplessness  and  perplexity. 

"Oliphant  's  gone  back  east  as  I  said,"  she  an- 
swered, "An'  this  here  Sawyer  's  new  to  me.  I 
never  knew  nothing  about  him." 

117 


THE  WELL  IN  THE  DESERT 

Card  stood  considering,  a  long  sequence  of  un- 
expected difficulties  developing  itself  before  his 
mind.  He  had  found  the  Hallard  deed  among  the 
deputy's  papers,  and  had  kept  it  carefully,  against 
such  time  as  he  could  restore  it  to  the  owner.  His 
first  act  after  leaving  Broome,  when  the  pair 
reached  the  railroad  track,  had  been  to  go  to  Yuma. 
Here  he  acquired  the  habiliments  of  civilization, 
and  found  a  temporary  home  for  Jinny.  He  had 
stopped  in  Tucson  long  enough  to  file  his  claim 
there,  and  then  set  about  finding  the  Edward  Hal- 
lard  to  whom  the  deed  referred.  It  was  a  matter 
of  a  fortnight  before  his  inquiries  revealed  the  fact 
of  Ed  Hallard's  death,  and  the  whereabouts  of  his 
widow.  Now  he  had  no  way  of  judging  how  long 
it  might  be  before  he  could  strike  the  trail  of  this 
unknown  Arthur  Sawyer  who  had  taken  the  ac- 
knowledgment of  the  deed. 

In  any  event,  he  realized  that  the  delay  meant 
postponement  of  certain  cherished  plans  of  his 
own;  perhaps  danger  to  them.  He  had  met  a 
man  at  Yuma,  and  another  in  Tucson,  who  had 
known  him  as  Barker,  and  though  they  had  not 
recognized  him,  so  greatly  was  he  changed,  still 
he  could  not  ignore  the  possibility  that  any  day 
someone  might  remember  him.  Until  his  plans 
were  perfected,  the  territory  was  perilous  ground 
for  him. 

118 


THE  WELL  IN  THE  DESERT 

He  frowned  a  moment,  lost  in  thought ;  then  he 
squared  his  shoulders  and  met  Mrs.  Hallard's  gaze 
with  eyes  that  were  full  of  steady  peace.  He  had 
made  up  his  mind.  His  own  matters  must  wait 
until  he  had  straightened  out  this  woman's  tangle 
of  wrong.  r 

"We  Ve  got  to  find  this  man  Sawyer,"  he  re- 
peated, "And  I  hardly  know  where  to  begin  trail- 
ing him.  We  Ve  got  to  get  hold  of  Westcott,  too ; 
you  say  he  's  at  Tucson  ?" 

"He  lives  there,"  was  the  reply;  "or  did  last  I 
knew.  I  ain't  heard  from  him  in  a  long  time  now. 
No  need  to." 

"Well:  I  guess  the  best  thing  to  do  first,  is  to 
write  to  him.  You  tell  him  you  Ve  found  your 
deed :  no  need  to  say  how.  We  '11  see  what  he  Js 
got  to  say,  and—"  There  was  the  least  perceptible 
hesitation,  "if  he  comes  up  here,  and  you  want  me 
to,"  he  continued  evenly,  "I  '11  talk  with  him  for 
you." 

Mrs.  Hallard  looked  relieved. 

"You  're  mighty  good,"  she  cried,  "Fact  is  I  'm 
afraid  .  .  .  you  see,  I  ..." 

The  outer  door  was  pushed  open  and  a  big 
Mexican  vaquero  put  in  his  head. 

"What 's  up,  Manuel?"  Mrs.  Hallard  asked. 

The  vaquero  hesitated:  "No  mas  supper?"  he 
said,  tentatively. 

119 


THE  WELL  IN  THE  DESERT 

"Supper  all  right,"  was  the  reply.  "You  're 
late,  Manuel.  What  you  doin'  off  the  range  ?" 

The  Mexican  made  a  laughing  gesture,  crooking 
up  his  elbow.  Mrs.  Hallard  frowned,  noting  his 
condition. 

"You  don't  git  no  booze  here,"  she  said,  "You  Ve 
had  enough.  Fat  '11  bring  you  some  coffee  an'  you 
eat  a  meal  an'  git  back  on  the  range.  You  had 
trouble  enough  last  time,  I  should  think." 

The  fellow  sat  down,  shamefacedly,  and  Sing 
Fat  came  in  to  serve  him.  A  moment  later  another 
customer  entered. 

"That  's  always  the  way  it  goes,"  Kate  Hallard 
commented,  "One  straggler  always  brings  an- 
other. They  '11  come  dribblin'  in  now,  one  at  a 
time,  till  closin'-time.  .  .  .  But  I  say,  Mr.  Gabriel 
Card,  don't  you  go  thinkin'  I  don't  appreciate 
what  you  Ve  done.  I  '11  write  Westcott  like  you 
say,  an'  mebby  it  '11  come  out  all  right;  but  I  ain't 
much  hopeful  of  it.  Things  don't,  much,  outside 
o'  story  books." 

The  hard  look  was  in  her  face  again.  Card  met 
it  with  his  steady  smile. 

"You  watch  this  one  come  out  right,"  said  he. 
"I  guess  things  mostly  are  right,  if  we  could  see 
'em  straight."  He  was  turning  toward  the  door. 

"We  're  liable  sometimes  to  pick  'em  up  by  the 
wrong  end,"  he  added.  "We  '11  find  out  which  is 
1 20 


THE  WELL  IN  THE  DESERT 

the  right  end  of  this  before  we  lift  it,  and  then—" 
the  smile  deepened,  and  included  the  dark  eyes— 
"Then  we  '11  lift,"  he  called  back  as  he  closed  the 
door  behind  him. 

Sylvania's  one  business  street  was  lighted  only 
by  the  stars,  and  the  feebler  rays  that  shone  from 
a  few  illuminated  windows.  In  the  yellow  glare 
from  one  of  these  a  group  of  cowboys  were  dis- 
mounting by  the  rail  of  Jim  Bracton's  Happy 
Family  Saloon. 

"Howdy,  Stranger,"  one  of  them  called,  as  he 
stumbled  against  Card  on  reaching  the  ground, 
"Excuse  me" 

He  glanced  a  second  time  at  Card's  face  and 
smiled,  genially.  "Thinkin*  o'  minglin'  up  in  this 
mad  whirl?"  he  asked,  "Come  on."  And  together 
they  entered  the  precincts  of  the  Happy  Family. 


121 


CHAPTER  II 

THE  scene  in  which  Card  found  himself  was  of  a 
sort  he  had  known  familiarly  enough  in  years 
past.  The  low-ceilinged  shanty,  rough-boarded  and 
blackened;  the  sawdust-strewn  floor,  the  painted 
bar  with  its  distorting  mirror  and  motley  array  of 
bottles,  and  even  the  faces  of  the  men  showing 
duskily  through  the  smoke-veiled  light  of  flaring 
coal-oil  lamps,  seemed  to  him  like  details  of  a  half- 
forgotten  dream. 

The  evening  was  fairly  begun  and  the  place  was 
filling.  A  group  of  prospectors  near  the  bar  were 
listening  derisively  to  the  brand-new  theory  one  of 
their  number  was  propounding,  regarding  the 
whereabouts  of  the  lost  Peg-leg  mine.  At  the 
farther  end  of  the  room  the  thump  of  a  broken- 
down  wheel-of -fortune  and  the  monotonous  calls  of 
its  manipulator,  proclaimed  the  occupation  of  the 
crowd  of  Mexicans  gathered  there.  Some  cow- 
boys at  a  table  near  the  door  were  engaged  in  a 
game  of  dominoes,  and  beyond  them  three  or  four 

122 


THE  WELL  IN  THE  DESERT 

men  were  playing  poker.  Card  noticed  with  some 
surprise  that  one  man  of  this  group  was  an  Indian, 
who  seemed  to  be  betting  freely. 

"That  there  's  old  Joe  Papago,"  the  cowboy  who 
had  come  in  with  him  volunteered,  noting  his 
glance.  "Old  Joe,  he  's  the  best-fixed  Injun  'round 
here.  I  hearn  he  sold  ten  head  o'  beef  cows  over  t' 
Tucson,  yesterday,  an'  got  his  money.  Must  'a' 
got  whiskey,  too,  by  the  looks  of  'im." 

He  put  a  foot  on  the  bar  rail  and  surveyed  the 
scene  tolerantly. 

"There  's  a  mighty  ornery  bunch  o'  human  buz- 
zards hangs  out  in  this  town  o'  Sylvania,"  he  said, 
candidly.  "But  a  feller  's  gotter  pass  some  time  in 
social  pursuits  now  'n  again,  an'  he  has  to  take  his 
kind  as  he  meets  up  with  'em." 

Card  was  still  recently  enough  from  solitude  to 
thrill  with  the  sense  of  human  companionship. 

"  'T  ain't  always  the  roughest  looking  ones  that 
are  the  worst,"  he  suggested,  sympathetically. 

"That  's  where  you  're  shoutin'."  The  cow- 
puncher  brought  a  big  fist  down  emphatically. 
"For  all  right  hell,"  he  said,  "a  real  polished  gent 
can  give  these  chaps  cards  an'  spades  an'  beat  'em 
to  the  devil  when  he  tries.  We  had  one  here  last 
year,  a  gent  that  played  cards — played  'em  too 
damn  well  fer  his  own  health,  finally.  But  he  was 
that  polished  in  his  manners  as  I  ever  went  any- 
123 


THE  WELL  IN  THE  DESERT 

wheres  to  see,  an'  he  could  lie  in  five  different  lan- 
guages." 

"Yes,  sir,"  he  added,  meditatively,  "five  different 
kinds  o'  mortal  human  conversations  that  feller 
had  a  cinch  onto ;  an'  he  could  n't  behave  hisself  in 
ary  one  of  'em." 

"What  you  havin'?"  he  suddenly  broke  off  to 
ask,  as  the  barkeeper  signified  his  readiness  to  at- 
tend to  them. 

"I  'm  drinking  lemonade,"  Card  said,  and  the 
cow-puncher  took  another  look  at  him. 

"Gimme  the  same,"  he  finally  told  the  barkeeper, 
with  serious  politeness. 

"Mebby  I  'd  oughter  beg  your  pardon";  he 
turned  to  Card  with  a  look  of  anxiety  on  his 
face.  "I  reckon  I  was  a  little  careless  in  my  talk  if 
you  happen  to  be  a  sin-buster." 

"A  what?" 

"Sin-buster.  You  sabe  bronco-buster,  don't  you ; 
an' trust-buster?" 

"Oh,  sure." 

"Well  then,  ain't  sin-buster  plain  United  States  ? 
It  's  what  a  preacher- feller  oughter  be  if  he  's  on 
his  job,  ain't  it?" 

"I  guess  it  is,"  was  Card's  reply,  "but  I  'm  not  a 
preacher.  I  just  have  n't  been  drinking  much  of 
late  years,  and  don't  know  's  I  care  to." 

"Oh!  that 's  it?  Well  lemonade 's  pretty  good 
124 


THE  WELL  IN  THE  DESERT 

stuff,"  the  cow-puncher  said,  cheerfully.  "I  can't 
seem  to  remember  when  I  've  had  none,  but  I 
reckon  it  '11  taste  first  rate.  I  ordered  it  thinkin' 
you  was  maybe  religious." 

He  finished  a  little  ruefully,  with  a  questioning 
inflection  on  the  last  words.  Card  laughed. 

"I  'm  not,  I  guess,"  he  said,  "leastways  not  so  's 
to  hurt  me." 

"That  's  good,"  the  cow-puncher  nodded,  ap- 
provingly, "Though  religion  don't  hurt  a  good 
person,"  he  added,  meditatively. 

He  removed  his  broad-brimmed  felt  hat  and 
peered  into  the  crown.  His  head  was  thatched  with 
close-cropped,  grizzly-gray  hair;  his  face  was 
tanned  and  seamed  by  wind  and  weather,  thin- 
lipped  and  stern  as  to  the  mouth,  under  his  short 
moustache,  with  steadfast  blue  eyes  that  had  the 
plainsman's  and  the  sailor's  trick  of  vigilance.  It 
was  a  face  to  be  trusted — shrewd,  honest,  capable, 
yet  full  of  a  simplicity  that  was  almost  childlike. 
Card  found  himself  warming  to  the  fellow. 

"I  suppose  you  belong  about  here?"  he  sug- 
gested. 

"Sure.  My  name  's  Sandy  Larch.  I  'm  fore- 
man out 't  the  Palo  Verde,  below  here.  Know  the 
range?" 

Card  admitted  that  he  did  not.  "I  'm  new  'round 
here,"  he  explained,  as  he  told  his  name. 

125 


THE  WELL  IN  THE  DESERT 

"I  'm  looking  for  a  man,"  he  added,  tentatively, 
"a  notary  named  Sawyer:  Arthur  Sawyer.  Ever 
hear  of  him?" 

Sandy  Larch  reflected,  repeating  the  name 
thoughtfully.  "Was  he  a  lunger  ?"  he  finally  asked, 
"A  little  feller,  with  broken  wind,  an'  a  cough  that 
'd  drive  you  wild  to  hear  ?" 

"I  don't  know."  The  description  took  Card's 
memory  back  to  the  days  when  he,  too,  had  had 
such  a  cough.  "I  never  saw  him,"  he  explained, 
"But  I  'm  mighty  anxious  to  get  hold  of  him." 

"There  was  a  man  up  in  the  Navajo  country," 
Sandy  continued,  "Where  the  patron  was  runnin' 
the  Bar  Circle  G.  He  stayed  'round  quite  a  con- 
siderable, doctorin'  his  lungs.  Then  the  patron  sold 
out  up  there ;  he  had  this  range  too,  in  them  days ; 
an'  I  ain't  never  seen  this  Sawyer  chap  down  this 
way.  The  patron  might  tell  you.  Know  him — 
Morgan  Anderson?" 

It  was  a  name  well  known  in  the  territory.  Card 
had  seen  its  owner  once  or  twice,  in  the  old 
days.  He  said  something  of  the  sort  to  the  cow- 
puncher. 

"He  's  away  just  now,"  the  latter  told  him ;  "but 
he  '11  be  back  in  a  few  days,  an'  you  can  ask  him. 
I  'd  know  whatever  did  become  o'  that  chap.  .  .  . 
Look  a'  there,  will  you  ?" 

He  glanced  over  to  where  the  men  were  playing 
126 


THE  WELL  IN  THE  DESERT 

poker.  One  of  them  had  reached  over  and  pulled 
a  big  brown  flask  from  the  Papago's  coat-pocket. 

"Time  you  treated  us  to  a  drink,  Joe/'  he  said, 
with  a  half-insolent  air  of  fellowship. 

The  Indian  nodded,  smiling  vacuously,  and  the 
bottle  went  around  the  table,  each  man  helping 
himself.  When  it  came  back  to  its  owner  he  rose 
with  it,  and  crossed  to  the  door,  going  out  into  the 
street.  The  men  at  the  table  looked  at  one  another 
with  a  grin  and  one  of  them  examined  the  hand  of 
cards  that  the  Indian  had  left  behind  him.  He  had 
just  laid  it  down  again  when  the  Papago  came 
back,  and  the  game  was  resumed. 

"Would  n't  that  rattle  your  slats  now?"  Sandy 
Larch  asked,  disgustedly. 

"Joe,"  he  continued,  "don't  dast  drink  even  his 
own  lickker  in  here.  It  's  agin  the  law  for  an  In- 
dian; an'  Jim  Bracton  would  n't  stand  fer  't;  he 
goes  outside  to  take  a  drink,  while  them  buzzards 
swills  it  in  here,  right  before  him ;  an'  they  're  git- 
tin'  his  wad,  too." 

Card  made  no  reply.  He  had  more  than  once 
glanced  at  the  group,  while  he  and  the  foreman 
were  talking,  and  now  he  watched  them  interest- 
edly, an  intent  look  in  his  deep  eyes.  A  moment 
later  he  had  turned,  and  was  moving  toward  the 
players. 

"Thinkin'  o'  sittin'  in?"  Sandy  Larch  asked, 
127 


THE  WELL  IN  THE  DESERT 

jestingly.  "They  's  sure  need  of  an  honest-no- 
tioned  man  to  deal  them  cards.  But  it  'd  be  tick- 
lish business.  .  .  .  Good  Lord !" 

He  was  staring  in  earnest,  now,  and  instinctively 
reached  for  the  gun  in  his  back-pocket,  though 
he  did  not  draw  it.  The  stranger  had  approached 
the  poker-players,  and  stood  over  them,  his  big, 
empty  hands  outspread  upon  the  table  before  them. 

The  men  whom  he  had  interrupted  looked  up  in 
surprise.  The  prospectors  who  had  been  discuss- 
ing the  Peg-leg  suddenly  became  silent.  The  dom- 
inoe-players  ceased  the  rattle  of  their  game  and 
stared.  A  hush  was  upon  the  whole  room,  a  tense 
feeling  of  pending  excitement.  One  or  two  men 
instinctively  measured  their  own  distance  from  the 
door,  and  from  the  center  of  coming  activities. 
Jim  Bracton  stared  open-mouthed  from  behind  his 
bar. 

"Who  is  the  feller?"  he  demanded.  "Friend  o' 
yourn,  Larch?" 

"Not  that  I  knows,"  was  the  foreman's  reply. 
"I  never  saw  him  before,  but  I  'm  sure  willin'  to 
sit  in  to  any  game  where  he  holds  a  hand." 

He  started  forward,  ready  to  draw  on  the  in- 
stant, but  the  stranger  seemed  not  to  see  him.  He 
had  gathered  the  eyes  of  the  poker-players  in  his 
own  indignant  gaze,  and  now  addressed  them  col- 
lectively : 

128 


THE  WELL  IN  THE  DESERT 

"Gentlemen,"  he  said,  quietly,  "you  ought  not  to 
be  doing  this." 

"Glory  be!"  groaned  Sandy  Larch  under  his 
breath,  "now  wha'  d'  you  think  o'  that  fer  a  simple 
speech?" 

The  astounded  men  to  whom  Gard  spoke  sat 
silent,  not  one  of  them  making  a  move.  They  were 
held  spell-bound  by  the  gentle  quality  of  his  fear- 
lessness. 

"Somebody  's  been  breaking  the  law,  and  selling 
this  Indian  whiskey,"  Gard  went  on,  in  a  matter-of- 
fact  tone.  "It  was  a  mighty  bad  thing  to  do,  and 
you  are  doing  something  a  heap  wickeder.  He  is 
drunk  now,  and  he  does  n't  rightly  sense  what  he  's 
doing.  You  ought  not  to  play  cards  with  him. 
You  're  drinking  his  liquor  and  helping  him  to  get 
drunker;  and— you  're  cheating  him,  out  of  his 
money" 

The  big  wheel-of-fortune  had  ceased  to  whirr 
now,  and  the  silence  of  the  room  was  broken  only 
by  a  snarling  question  from  one  of  the  men  Gard 
had  addressed. 

"What  in  hell  o'  your  business  is  it  ?" 

"It  's  every  man's  business  when  another  man 
breaks  the  law,"  was  the  quiet  reply.  "You  'd  bet- 
ter quit  playing  now,  friend,"  Gard  continued, 
turning  to  the  Papago.  "You  'd  better  quit  right 
off,  while  you  've  got  something  left,  and  go  home." 

129 


THE  WELL  IN  THE  DESERT 

"You  stay  where  you  be,  Joe,"  growled  the  man 
who  had  asked  the  question.  "Don't  you  climb  out 
fer  no  tenderfoot.  I  '11  settle  the—" 

He  stopped  speaking  as  the  stranger's  eyes 
blazed  full  upon  him  for  an  instant. 

"You  go  now,  Joe,"  Card  said,  in  a  low,  even 
voice. 

Like  a  man  in  a  dream  old  Joe  rose,  slipping  into 
his  pocket  the  coins  he  had  been  about  to  put  into 
the  game  when  Card  interfered.  The  tenseness  of 
the  situation  had  brought  him  to  some  measure  of 
sobriety,  and  he  did  not  reel  as  he  left  the  room. 
A  moment  later  the  patter  of  his  pony's  unshod 
feet  came  to  the  listening  ears  within. 

Gard  still  held  the  other  men  in  a  gaze  that 
seemed  to  search  and  estimate  the  hidden  thought 
of  each. 

"Now  they  '11  kill  him,  sure,"  Sandy  Larch 
thought,  slipping  nearer,  but  the  stranger  took  no 
notice  of  him. 

"Friends,"  he  said,  breaking  at  last  the  tense 
silence  that  ruled  the  room,  "There  's  a  law  against 
making  an  Indian  drunk,  and  there  's  a  law  against 
robbing  him.  They  're  white  men's  laws;  and 
white  men  ought  to  keep  'em." 

"It  ain't  right";  he  went  on,  still  leaning  upon 
the  table,  and  the  men  listened,  as  if  hypnotized. 
"There  's  things  a  man  can't  do  without  getting 
130 


THE  WELL  IN  THE  DESERT 

lower  down  than  any  man  wants  to  be,  and  cheat- 
ing a  drunken  Indian  is  one  of  'em.  That  's  the 
truth  of  it.  You  ought  not  to  do  it,  and  when  you 
do  somebody  's  got  to  make  you  stop.  That 's  why 
I  interfered.  .  .  .  There  ain't  any  reason  though," 
he  added,  as  if  an  after  thought,  "why  you 
should  n't  go  on  with  your  game,  now ;  I  'm  going 
to  say  good-night." 

He  straightened  up,  and  turning  his  back  upon 
the  group  walked  quietly  toward  the  door.  Half-a- 
dozen  men  were  ready,  now,  to  draw  in  his  defense, 
but  there  was  no  need.  Not  a  man  of  those  whom 
he  had  brought  to  book  moved.  They  sat  like 
men  dazed,  until  the  door  had  closed  upon  Gard; 
then,  with  an  oath,  one  of  them  seized  upon  the 
cards. 

"What  th'  Almighty  's  the  matter  with  you 
fools?"  he  growled.  "Whose  deal  is  it,  anyhow? 
Git  int'  the  game,  you.  This  ain't  no  damned  kin- 
dergarten !" 

They  resumed  their  playing,  sullenly,  and  the 
spell  upon  the  room  was  broken.  Sandy  Larch 
wiped  his  damp  forehead  upon  a  huge  red  hand- 
kerchief, and  turned  to  the  bar. 

"Jim,"  he  said,  feebly,  "set  down  that  there  bot- 
tle o'  whiskey,  will  ye?  I  sure  need  it  in  my 
business  right  now." 

He  measured  a  liberal  potion  and  swallowed  it. 


THE  WELL  IN  THE  DESERT 

"An*  he  said  he  wa'nt  no  sin-buster,"  he  mut- 
tered. "He  sure  was  on  the  job,  though. 

"But  wa'nt  that  a  sweet  line  o'  talk  to  hand  out 
to  men  folks,  Jim?  How  'd  it  come  they  did  n't 
kiirim?" 

"Search  me,"  was  the  bar-keeper's  reply.  "I  had 
my  gun  all  limbered.  I  sure  expected  the  place  'd 
be  shot  up." 

"He  tells*  'em  it  was  n't  right,"  Sandy  mused, 
absently  refilling  his  glass.  "He  tells  them  b-a-a-d 
men  't  was  n't  right!  An'  there  they  sits,  like  they 
was  throwed  an'  hog-tied,  while  he  turns  'round 
his  back  to  'em  an'  walks  out  like  they  ain't  a  thing 
on  earth  to  be  afraid  of.  Lord !  He  can  have  me !" 

He  drained  his  glass  and  departed,  leaving  the 
Happy  Family  to  its  own  devices. 

Card,  meantime,  had  walked  out  beyond  the 
town  to  the  open  desert.  His  spirit  was  full  of 
trouble,  hot  with  indignation  at  what  he  had  seen, 
oppressed  with  a  sense  of  the  complexity  of  the  life 
into  which  he  was  so  suddenly  plunged.  It  was 
hard  to  realize  that  the  still,  bright  stars  above  him 
were  shining,  as  well,  upon  the  clean  peace  that 
dwelt  in  the  glade.  His  thoughts  turned  thither 
like  homing  birds,  and  he  walked  on  across  the 
cactus  dotted  sands,  until  he  could  look  toward  the 
shadowy  bulk  of  the  far  mountains,  visible  in  the 
marvelous  desert  starlight.  Somewhere  in  that 

132 


THE  WELL  IN  THE  DESERT 

direction,  he  knew,  the  glade  lay,  and  gradually  a 
feeling  came  to  him  of  quiet,  and  of  renewing 
strength.  He  was  able  to  think  calmly  of  the  sud- 
den complication  in  his  plans,  and  to  consider  the 
best  course  to  pursue. 

He  would  see  Morgan  Anderson  as  soon  as  pos- 
sible. In  the  meantime  Mrs.  Hallard  would  write 
to  Westcott.  He  would  probably  be  obliged  to  talk 
with  the  lawyer  for  her :  the  mere  thought  set  his 
nerves  tense ;  until  this  matter  was  settled  his  own 
affairs  must  wait.  Of  this  there  was  no  question 
in  his  mind  as  he  directed  his  steps  in  a  wide  circuit 
back  to  the  town. 

He  was  nearing  its  outskirts  when  he  felt  a  light 
touch  upon  his  arm.  One  of  his  hands  was  seized 
in  two  small,  clinging  ones,  and  covered  with  soft, 
hot  kisses.  He  turned  quickly,  freeing  himself 
with  a  little  shake,  and  looked  into  the  upturned 
face  of  'Chita,  the  dancer. 

The  bright  stars  lighted  her  face  to  a  mystic, 
witching  glow ;  her  eyes  gleamed  upon  him  in  soft 
summons  as  she  leaned  toward  him,  seeking  again 
to  possess  herself  of  his  hand. 

He  drew  back,  ever  so  little,  and  seeing  this  she 
stretched  both  arms  out  to  him  in  a  wide,  pleading 
gesture,  her  smiling  lips  parted  in  mute  supplement 
to  the  invitation  of  her  gleaming  eyes. 

Still  as  a  graven  man  he  stood,  regarding  her 

133 


THE  WELL  IN  THE  DESERT 

steadily,  and  she  came  no  nearer.  Instead,  she 
shrank  a  little,  her  hands  dropping  to  her  sides,  her 
dark  eyes  fastened  upon  his.  Card's  stern  eyes 
softened  and  he  came  a  step  closer,  brooding  over 
the  trembling  girl  without  touching  her. 

"Child/'  he  said,  "have  n't  you  any  mother? 
Is  n't  there  anybody  to  take  care  of  you?" 

Only  her  heaving  shoulders  answered  him. 

"Don't  cry,"  Card  said,  his  voice  full  of  pity. 
"I— I  don't  like  to  hear  little  girls  cry." 

She  shivered  toward  him  again,  and  reaching 
quickly,  her  arm  stole  round  his  neck,  the  other 
hand  seeking  his  face.  "I  love  you,"  she  whis- 
pered. Her  fingers  pressed  his  lips,  and  he  put  her 
back,  firmly. 

"Don't,"  he  said  sharply.  "You  don't  under- 
stand. Why— you  're  only  a  little  girl.  Where  is 
your  home,  child?  I  am  going  to  take  you  there." 

She  sprang  back  with  a  cry,  and  her  anger  flashed 
out  upon  him. 

"Oh !"  she  stamped  one  foot  upon  the  sand.  "Do 
I  not  understand  ?  Think  you  I  do  not  ?  You  mis- 
erable! You  have  never  the  heart  of  a  caballero. 
You  are  but  hombre,  after  all !" 

She  caught  her  breath. 

"Gringo  swine!"  she  hissed.  " Hombre!  It  is 
not  the  heart  of  a  caballero!" 

"I  have  n't  got  the  heart  to  crush  little  girls,"  he 

134 


THE  WELL  IN  THE  DESERT 

answered,  "if  that  's  what  you  mean.  Tell  me 
where  you  live.  I  'm  going  to  take  you  home. 
You  must  not  be  out  here  alone." 

He  spoke  now  with  protecting  concern.  The 
girl's  mood  had  changed  again,  and  she  was  sob- 
bing passionately. 

"Do  you  live  in  the  town?"  Card  persisted,  and 
she  shook  her  head.  Half  unconsciously  she  was 
walking  beside  him  as  he  moved  forward. 

"Hush !"  she  suddenly  cried,  checking  her  sobs. 

Across  the  desert  came  the  sound  of  a  man's 
voice,  calling  angrily.  'Chita  put  out  a  hand,  ar- 
resting Card's  steps. 

"It  is  my  father,"  she  whispered.  "He  is  blind ; 
but  he  has  ears  of  the  coyote.  If  he  hears  you — if 
he  knows — he  will  beat  me !" 

She  was  but  a  child,  now,  in  her  terror,  and  Card 
reassured  her. 

"He  '11  never  know,"  he  said.  "No  one  will  ever 
know.  You  go  back,  now,  like  a  good  girl.  And 
remember :  you  must  never  do  a  silly  thing  like  this 
again.  Will  you  promise  me?" 

She  lifted  a  pale  face  toward  his,  in  the  starlight. 
Her  eyes  were  luminous,  now,  with  new,  strange 
emotion. 

"Sefior,"  she  whispered,  "it  is  the  heart  of  a 
caballero.  Sefior — you  are  good." 

"You  will  promise?"  Card  persisted. 

135 


THE  WELL  IN  THE  DESERT 

Again  that  summoning  voice  rang  across  the 
desert.  The  girl  called  in  Spanish  that  she  was 
coming. 

"I  promise,"  she  cried,  with  a  sobbing  catch  of 
the  breath.  (f Buenos  noches,  Sefior." 

She  caught  Card's  hand  again,  for  an  instant, 
resting  her  cheek  against  it,  the  fraction  of  a  sec- 
ond. 

"Buenos  noches''  she  whispered  again,  and  sped 
away  into  the  soft,  starry  gloom. 


136 


CHAPTER  III 

'TAHE  desert  was  a  marvel  of  mauve  and  yellow 
A  and  rose-color,  under  a  canopy  of  blue.  The 
sun  was  not  too  hot,  and  the  air  was  vital  and  sus- 
taining. Helen  Anderson,  riding  over  the  hard 
plain,  sniffed  it  joyously.  She  loved  the  smell  of 
the  desert,  that  intangible,  indescribable  odor  that 
is  yet  so  permeating:  one  of  the  fixed  facts  of 
the  region.  She  had  missed  it,  hungrily,  during 
four  years  of  exile  from  the  Palo  Verde. 

She  lifted  her  eyes  to  the  sapphire-blue  moun- 
tains on  the  horizon  and  laughed  aloud  for  sheer 
joy,  with  a  sense  of  physical  well-being,  as  her 
vision  ranged  from  these  to  nearer  scenes.  She 
was  passing  a  Papago's  hut,  a  tiny  structure  of 
cream-colored  adobe,  with  a  dark  roof  of  thatch. 
The  hut  itself  was  hardly  larger  than  its  own  big 
chimney,  and  squatted  on  the  yellow  sand,  in  its 
little  patch  of  shade,  was  an  Indian  woman. 

She  wore  a  skirt  of  dark  blue  stuff,  and  a  white 
reboso  was  wound  about  the  upper  part  of  her  body 

137 


THE  WELL  IN  THE  DESERT 

and  carried  over  her  dark  hair.  Her  dusky  arms 
were  bare,  and  her  brown  hands  patted  and  shaped 
and  smoothed  a  pot  of  red  clay,  soon  to  be 
baked  in  the  little  kiln  where  a  fire  was  already 
glowing. 

Helen  called  a  gay  greeting  to  her  and  she  looked 
up,  showing  her  white  teeth  in  a  broad  smile.  Then 
she  paused  in  her  deft  handling  of  the  wet,  red 
clay,  to  flip  a  bit  gently  at  the  inquisitive  nose  of 
Patsy,  Helen's  fox  terrier,  who  was  minded  to  in- 
vestigate the  pottery  operations.  Helen  called  the 
dog  and  lifted  her  pony  to  a  gallop.  So  the  three 
went  scampering  off  in  a  wild  race  over  the  level 
sand.  A  mile  was  measured  before  the  girl  drew 
rein  again,  with  a  blissful  sigh  of  pure  happiness. 

"And  to  think,"  she  told  herself,  with  a  little 
feeling  of  unreality  about  it  all,  "that  back  in  New 
England  there  is  snow  on  the  ground,  and  fire  in 
the  furnaces,  and  people  who  must  be  out  of  doors 
are  thumping  their  arms,  to  keep  warm,  and  telling 
one  another  what  a  glorious,  bracing  climate  they 
have." 

She  fell  into  a  brown  study  and  her  reins  lay 
loose  upon  the  pony's  neck  while  she  went  back 
over  the  four  happy  years  she  had  spent  in  the  land 
of  snow.  How  strange  it  seemed  that  so  short  a 
while  ago  the  east,  New  England,  even  college  it- 
self, had  been  to  her  mere  names.  Then,  for  four 

138 


THE  WELL  IN  THE  DESERT 

years,  they  had  been  such  happy  entities.    What  a 
beautiful  memory  her  whole  college  life  was ! 

"And  now,"  she  mused,  "it  seems  as  if  it  were 
all  fading  back  into  the  dream  again,  yet  I  know 
things  are  as  real,  back  there,  as  they  ever  were, 
and  the  real  me,  that  RadclifTe  helped  make,  is  here 
in  a  real  place,  with  the  realest  sort  of  things  to  do. 

"For  one  thing,"  she  said,  half  aloud,  "I  can 
keep  right  on  making  Father  glad  I  'm  home  for 
good,  and  showing  him  that  he  need  not  worry 
about  me." 

That  thought  checked  a  growing  wistfulness  in 
her  mood.  Morgan  Anderson  was  glad  to  have  his 
girl  back,  even  though  he  had  his  well-defined 
doubts  as  to  the  desert  being  the  best  place  for  her. 
Her  college  years  had  been  weary  years  to  the 
lonely  man,  and  his  happiness  in  the  new  order  was 
a  beautiful  part  of  Helen's  home-coming. 

The  girl  could  scarcely  remember  her  mother. 
There  had  always  been  Jacinta,  her  half -Spanish 
nurse,  now  the  household  factotum,  in  the  back- 
ground of  her  childish  years.  In  the  foreground 
was  the  well-loved  figure  of  her  father,  who  had 
been  her  friend  and  constant  companion.  It  was 
he  who  had  taught  her  to  read  and  to  write,  and  to 
do  plane  and  solid  geometry :  to  ride  hard,  to  shoot 
straight,  and  to  tell  the  truth.  Beyond  these  her 
education,  other  than  what  old  Jacinta  could  im- 

139 


THE  WELL  IN  THE  DESERT 

part,  had  been  received  at  the  hands  of  one  of  the 
cowboys  on  the  range,  a  college  graduate  with  a 
love  for  the  plains. 

Aunt  Everett  had  been  horrified  at  this  arrange- 
ment. Aunt  Everett  was  her  father's  relative,  who, 
on  two  formidable  occasions,  had  descended  upon 
the  rancho  and  undertaken  to  revolutionize  the 
household.  This  she  did  out  of  a  sense  of  duty  to 
Helen,  who,  she  declared,  was  growing  up  in  sheer 
savagery  and  ignorance. 

Helen  was  twenty  years  old  when  Aunt  Everett 
paid  her  second,  and  last,  visit.  It  was  then  the 
momentous  decision  was  reached  that  the  girl 
should  go  to  college.  It  was  for  the  sake  of  his 
own  youthful  dream  of  Harvard,  that  had  never 
come  true,  that  Morgan  Anderson  had  fixed  upon 
Radcliffe,  and  Helen's  four  beautiful  years  had  be- 
come a  fact. 

She  sighed  again,  recalling  those  years. 

"They  were  so  lovely,"  she  murmured,  "and 
they  have  sent  me  back— how  is  it  old  Marcus 
Aurelius  phrased  it? — 'free  from  all  discontent 
with  that  to  which  thou  returnest.' 

"Free  from  discontent?"  she  cried,  taking  in 
another  deep,  long  breath  of  the  buoyant  air,  "I 
should  say  I  am !  I  was  never  in  my  life  so  abound- 
ingly  happy !" 

The  pony  was  walking  slowly,  and  as  Helen 

140 


THE  WELL  IN  THE  DESERT 

looked  about  she  became  aware  that  Patsy  was  not 
in  attendance  upon  them. 

She  halted,  anxiously,  the  dog  was  a  recent  ac- 
quisition, given  her  by  Sandy  Larch,  on  her  return 
from  college,  she  was  training  him  to  keep  with 
her.  This  was  the  first  time  she  had  really  forgot- 
ten him.  She  reproached  herself  as  she  rode  back 
over  the  way  they  had  come,  for  letting  her  wits  go 
wool-gathering. 

She  called  the  terrier,  reining  in  from  time  to 
time,  but  there  was  no  response,  and  becoming  at 
last  thoroughly  alarmed,  she  dismounted,  dropping 
the  pony's  reins  over  his  head  to  the  ground,  and 
started  on  foot  to  investigate  among  the  cacti. 

"He  's  found  a  gopher-hole  somewhere,"  she 
said  to  herself,  as  she  went  whistling  about  among 
the  greasewood  and  cacti. 

She  ceased  to  whistle,  presently,  vexed  at  Patsy's 
lack  of  response,  and  continued  her  search  in  si- 
lence until,  rounding  a  cactus-grown  knoll,  strewn 
with  loose  stone,  she  suddenly  halted,  warned  by  a 
familiar,  burring  sound  that  for  an  instant  made 
her  heart  jump. 

A  few  yards  away  from  her  was  the  terrier, 
rigid,  immovable,  the  hair  along  his  back,  even  the 
loose  skin  between  his  shoulders,  stiffly  erect.  His 
lips  were  drawn  back  from  his  white  teeth ;  his  ears 
were  pricked  forward,  and  his  whole  body  shud- 

141 


THE  WELL  IN  THE  DESERT 

dered  with  the  vibration  of  his  low,  continuous 
growling. 

Near  the  dog,  lying  prone,  his  face  turned  to- 
ward her,  Helen  saw  a  man,  and  still  beyond  him, 
alert,  motionless,  save  for  the  minute  quiver  of 
that  ominous,  buzzing  tail,  a  huge  rattler  was 
coiled,  its  cold,  wicked  little  eyes  fixed  upon  the 
dog. 

"I  must  not  scream ;  I  must  not  faint,"  the  hor- 
rified girl  told  herself,  trying  to  stand  steady,  and 
to  think  quick. 

If  the  dog  or  the  snake  saw  her  neither  made 
any  sign.  They  glared,  unmoving,  at  each  other, 
across  the  helpless  man.  Neither  dared  attack,  or 
retreat,  and  Helen  knew  that  any  move  on  either 
her  part  or  the  man's,  would  cause  the  snake  to 
strike— the  dog  to  spring. 

The  man  lay  exactly  in  the  storm-center,  when 
trouble  should  come,  and  it  seemed  as  though 
neither  dog  nor  snake  could  much  longer  maintain 
the  horrid  statu  quo.  Patsy's  low  growling  was 
dreadful  to  hear,  and  the  snake's  steady  rattle 
brought  the  sweat  of  sheer  fright  to  her  forehead. 

She  glanced  again  at  the  man  and  his  gaze  met 
hers  steadily.  It  was  clear  that  he  was  alive  to  the 
full  peril  of  his  position,  yet  there  was  no  sign  of 
agitation  in  his  face.  Rather,  his  glance  seemed 
meant  to  reassure  her.  Shamed  by  her  own  fears, 

142 


THE  WELL  IN  THE  DESERT 

Helen  summoned  her  faculties  to  meet  the  situa- 
tion. 

She  had  grown  up  in  the  desert.  She  had  known 
rattlesnakes  before  ever  she  went  to  college,  and 
her  four  years  of  sophistication  had  not  crowded 
out  that  earlier  knowledge.  Her  brain  seemed  sud- 
denly to  clear,  her  nerves  to  harden.  She  knew 
what  could  be  done,  if  she  could  but  trust  Patsy  to 
hold  steady.  She  remembered  Sandy  Larch's 
boast,  that  the  dog  was  game.  Now  was  the  time 
to  show  it,  if  he  was. 

"Steady,  Patsy ;  steady,  boy ;  quiet ;  quiet,  boy !" 
Over  and  over  she  whispered  the  words,  oh,  so 
gently,  that  she  might  not  startle  the  young  dog, 
and  all  the  while  she  was  slowly,  slowly,  raising 
her  right  hand,  in  which  was  her  riding-whip.  She 
was  too  thorough  a  plainswoman  to  use  such  a 
thing  on  a  horse,  but  she  carried  it  to  use  in  train- 
ing the  terrier. 

"Steady,  Patsy ;  down,  boy ;  down !" 
The  whip  was  extended  in  front  of  her,  now,  and 
she  was  moving  it  gently  from  side  to  side.  The 
snake  had  caught  sight  of  it,  and  was  following  it 
with  its  eyes,  swaying  in  unison  with  the  whip's 
motion. 

Never  staying  the  steady  movement  of  her  arm, 
Helen  crept  forward,  whispering  reassurance  to 
the  dog,  until  at  last,  still  waving  the  whip,  she 

143 


THE  WELL  IN  THE  DESERT 

dropped  to  one  knee  and  slipped  her  fingers  under 
his  collar.  He  stopped  his  growling  and  nestled  to 
her  with  a  little  whimper.  When  she  commanded 
him  to  charge  he  dropped  to  his  belly  and  lay  per- 
fectly still,  his  eyes  fixed  upon  the  snake. 

"If  you  can  manage  to  turn  the  thing's  head  a 
bit,  little  girl; — "  it  was  the  man  who  spoke,  in  a 
low,  level  voice— "so  he  can't  notice  what  I  'm  do- 
ing, I  '11  fix  him." 

With  a  little  nod,  Helen  stood  up  and  began 
moving  sidewise,  still  swinging  the  whip.  Thor- 
oughly hypnotized,  the  snake  swayed  with  its 
movement,  those  beady  little  eyes  never  leaving  it. 
The  rattler  did  not  see  the  stealthy  glide  of  the 
man's  hand,  or  the  gleaming  steel  that  was  pres- 
ently leveled  at  that  flat,  venomous  head.  An  in- 
stant after  there  was  a  sharp  report,  and  the  snake 
was  whipping  the  desert  in  its  death  struggle  as 
Helen  again  caught  the  terrier  by  the  collar.  The 
man  essayed  to  rise,  and  sank  back  with  a  sharp 
exclamation  of  pain. 

"I  guess  I  Ve  hurt  my  foot,"  he  said,  answering 
Helen's  look  of  inquiry. 

"I— my  horse  took  to  pitching,  and  slung  me 
here,"  he  went  on,  sitting  up.  "I  can't  think  what 
got  the  fellow,  or  me  either,"  he  added,  with  a  look 
of  chagrin.  "I  never  thought  I  needed  a  bucking- 
strap  ;  but  it  seems  as  if  I  did." 
144 


THE  WELL  IN  THE  DESERT 

He  spoke  lightly,  partly  to  hearten  the  girl,  who 
was  white  and  shaken,  after  her  horrid  experience, 
and  partly  to  draw  her  attention  from  the  victim  of 
his  shot,  now  stretched  on  the  desert. 

Another  effort  and  he  got  to  his  feet;  but  the 
first  attempt  to  step  brought  him  to  one  knee, 
frowning  with  pain. 

"And  I  don't  suppose  there  's  a  stick  in  sight, 
that  would  give  me  any  support,"  he  said,  looking 
about. 

"I  'm  afraid  not,"  Helen  answered,  following 
his  glance ;  and  then  she  remembered. 

"I  can  bring  up  my  horse,"  she  cried.  "I  left 
him  by  the  mesquite  when  I  dismounted  to  look  for 
Patsy,  here." 

"Patsy  's  sure  an  enterprising  little  dog1,"  the 
man  said,  smiling,  "I  don't  just  know  whether  I 
have  to  thank  him  for  stirring  up  the  little  diffi- 
culty a  while  ago,  or  for  keeping  it  from  being 
worse  before  you  came." 

"I  'm  afraid  it  was  he  that  roused  the  rattler," 
replied  Helen,  ruefully.  "He  is  young,  yet,  and 
has  his  sense  to  get." 

The  man  laughed.  "I  was  a  little  stunned  when 
my  horse  landed  me  here,"  he  explained,  shyly. 
"First  thing  I  knew  I  was  sort  of  waking  up,  and 
that  was  the  tableau  I  beheld.  I  did  n't  do  much 
that  was  strenuous,  from  then  on." 

145 


THE  WELL  IN  THE  DESERT 

Helen  was  wondering,  curiously,  who  the  man 
could  be.  He  was  evidently  not  a  cow-boy,  or  a 
prospector,  and  she  knew  that  if  he  were  a  cattle- 
man or  a  mining  expert,  a  stranger  in  that  part  of 
the  country,  he  would  naturally  have  been  the  haci- 
enda's guest.  Such  visitors  in  the  neighborhood 
were  always  for  her  father.  Perhaps  he  was  on 
his  way  to  him,  now. 

"Were  you  going  to  the  Palo  Verde  ?"  she  asked, 
impulsively.  "I  am  Helen  Anderson.  Father  will 
be  sorry  you  have  had  an  accident." 
•  "I  thought  you  must  belong  there,"  he  said,  sim- 
ply, "and  I  was  going  to  tell  you  my  name.  It  's 
Card— not  a  very  long  one,"  with  a  smile,  "and  I 
was  going  to  the  Palo  Verde,  though  your  father 
does  n't  know  me.  I  wanted  to  see  him  on  busi- 


ness." 


"Then  the  best  thing  we  can  do,"  Helen  said, 
briskly,  "is  to  get  there  at  once.  I  'm  going  to  ask 
you  to  keep  Master  Patsy  here,  while  I  go  for  the 
horse." 

She  was  already  speeding  down  the  knoll,  and  a 
moment  later  she  returned  leading  Dickens,  the 
pony,  who  had  stood  patiently  where  she  left  him. 

For  a  time  it  looked  as  though  the  stranger  was 

not  going  to  get  into  the  saddle.     Dickens  was 

restless  and  nervous  over  his  awkward  approaches, 

and  the  pain  in  Gard's  foot  was  excruciating,  but 

146 


THE  WELL  IN  THE  DESERT 

after  many  agonized  attempts  he  finally  mounted. 
He  was  white  and  faint,  after  the  effort,  but  he 
smiled  resolutely  down  upon  the  girl  while  he  ad- 
justed the  stirrup  he  could  use. 

"I  am  glad  you  ride  this  way,"  he  said,  indica- 
ting her  military  tree.  "I  thought  I  'd  have  to  sit 
in  one  of  those  queer  dishes  ladies  usually  ride  on." 

Helen  laughed.  "If  I  waited  to  have  horses 
gentled  to  the  side-saddle,"  she  answered,  "I  should 
never  get  anything  to  ride.  It  's  the  only  way, 
here  in  the  desert,  and  Father  always  thought  it 
was  the  safer  way." 

She  was  walking  beside  the  pony,  her  broad- 
brimmed  felt  hat  pushed  back,  that  she  might  look 
up  at  her  guest.  "I  used  a  side-saddle  back  east," 
she  added. 

"I  think  this  way  is  a  lot  better,"  Card  replied. 
He  wished  she  would  look  up  again.  It  seemed  to 
him  that  his  eyes  had  never  beheld  anything  more 
delicious  than  her  upturned  face,  with  its  back- 
ground of  broad  hat-brim. 

He  could  only  glimpse  it  when  she  looked 
straight  ahead,  as  she  was  doing  now.  Her  nose 
had  a  little  tilt,  that  made  him  think  her  always  just 
about  to  look  up,  and  kept  him  in  a  pleasant  state 
of  expectation.  He  could  not  see  her  mouth  and 
chin  without  leaning  forward,  and  he  shrank,  shyly, 
from  doing  that,  but  he  studied  the  firm  brown 

147 


THE  WELL  IN  THE  DESERT 

cheek,  where  just  a  touch  of  deep  color  came  and 
went,  and  the  neat  sweep  of  fair  hair  back  into  the 
shadow  of  the  broad  hat,  and  he  had  noted  when 
she  looked  up  that  her  eyes  were  gray,  looking  out 
friendly-wise  under  level  brows! 

"You  were  a  mighty  plucky  little  girl  to  tackle 
that  rattler,"  he  said,  with  a  sudden  realization  of 
her  courage.  Her  short  riding-habit  misled  him 
and  he  did  not  think  of  her  as  grown  up. 

Helen  stiffened,  resentful  of  what  seemed  like  a 
too  familiar  address.  Then  she  recognized  his  mis- 
take, with  a  curious  little  sense  of  pleasure  in  it. 

"That  was  nothing/'  she  answered,  with  a  light- 
hearted  laugh,  "Sandy  Larch  taught  me  the  trick. 
I  played  that  way  with  more  than  one  rattler 
when"—  "when  I  was  a  child,"  she  had  been  about 
to  say,  but  she  changed  it,  and  added,  "before  I 
went  away  to  school."  "No  use  dragging  in  'col- 
lege' "  she  told  herself.  "He  might  think  I  was 
trying  to  seem  important." 

"I  know  Sandy  Larch,"  Card  said.  "He  's  a 
good  man." 

"So  are  you,"  was  the  thought  that  flashed 
through  the  girl's  mind  as  she  glanced  upward 
again.  She  dismissed  it  instantly,  with  a  feeling  of 
astonishment  at  herself.  She  was  not  given  to 
speculate  in  such  wise  on  the  quality  of  chance 
acquaintances. 

148 


THE  WELL  IN  THE  DESERT 

"Sandy  's  just  Sandy/'  she  replied.  "One  of  the 
best  friends  I  ever  had.  I  can't  remember  the  time 
when  he  was  njt  on  hand  looking  after  me/' 

There  was  silence  for  a  while,  till  Card  spoke 
again. 

"I  hate  to  make  you  walk,"  he  apologized, 
"You  '11  be  all  tuckered  out." 

"Not  a  bit,"  she  declared,  stoutly.  "You  must 
be  new  to  the  desert,  if  you  don't  know  what  miles 
people  can  walk  here,  without  getting  tired." 

The  bronze  of  his  face  was  tinged  with  a  faint 
red. 

"No,"  said  he,  "I  ain't  new  to  the  desert.  Not 
much  I  ain't  new;  even—"  with  a  mortified  laugh 
— "if  I  did  let  my  bronco  throw  me.  I  guess, 
though,  I  'm  new  to  little  girls,"  he  continued. 
"Seem  's  if  you  ought  to  be  tired.  You  don't  look 
so  very  big." 

"I  'm  strong,  though."  Somehow,  his  assump- 
tion that  she  was  a  little  girl  gave  Helen  a  pleasant 
sense  of  ease  in  his  company.  She  glanced  up  at 
him  again,  and  was  startled  to  see  how  pale  he  had 
grown,  under  his  tan.  His  forehead  was  knit  with 
pain,  and  his  teeth  were  set  against  one  lip. 

"I  wish  I  could  do  something  for  you!"  she 
cried,  in  quick  sympathy.  "But  we  're  nearly 
there ;  and  Father  's  as  good  as  a  doctor,  any  day." 

"It 's  all  right,"  he  muttered.    "I  was  just  a  fool. 
149 


THE  WELL  IN  THE  DESERT 

I  thought  I  'd  see  if  I  could  n't  get  down  and  walk ; 
so  I  tried  putting  that  foot  in  the  stirrup." 

"That  was  a  clever  thing  to  do,"  Helen  scolded, 
"I  see  you  do  not  know  how  to  believe  people  when 
they  say  they  are  not  tired." 

She  quickened  her  pace,  that  he  might  see  how 
far  she  was  from  weariness. 

"I  'm  sorry/'  he  said,  humbly.  "I  did  n't  mean 
to  do  anything  to  set  you  running  off  like  that." 

No  reply.  They  went  on  again  in  a  silence  that 
lasted  for  several  moments. 

"Ain't  you  going  to  forgive  me?"  he  asked, 
presently. 

Helen  considered ;  not  what  he  had  said  however. 
She  was  more  deeply  interested  in  deciding  why  his 
"ain't"  was  not  offensive  to  her  college-bred  ears. 

"After  all,"  she  thought,  deliberating  it,  "those 
things  do  not  matter  so  much  when  people  them- 
selves are  real." 

"I  won't  do  it  again,"  the  voice  beside  her 
pleaded,  in  an  exaggeration  of  penitence,  and  she 
laughed,  looking  up  at  him. 

"I  did  n't  think  you  'd  be  such  a  hard-hearted 
little  girl,"  Card  said,  reproachfully. 

"I  am  not,"  she  replied.  "I  am  only  sensible. 
You  should  believe  what  people  tell  you." 

He  made  no  reply.  He  was  trying  to  decide 
how  old  the  child  could  be. 


THE  WELL  IN  THE  DESERT 

"I  guess,"  he  thought,  with  an  effort  to  recall 
little  girls  he  had  seen— ah,  how  long  ago  it  was 
that  he  had  seen  any!— "she  's  most  likely  about 
twelve.  She  '11  be  mighty  pretty  when  she  grows 
up." 

His  foot  still  hurt,  cruelly,  in  consequence  of  his 
rash  experiment,  but  -fortunately  they  were  at  the 
rancho.  A  few  moments  later  they  had  reached 
the  casa,  where  Morgan  Anderson  took  charge 
of  his  guest  with  skilful  good-will.  Like  all  cattle- 
men, he  was  fairly  expert  at  attending  to  hurts; 
could  set  a  bone,  on  a  pinch,  and  it  did  not  take 
him  long  to  discover  that  one  of  the  small  bones  of 
Card's  foot  was  dislocated.  With  Sandy  Larch's 
aid  he  set  the  matter  to  rights,  and  bandaged  the 
foot  in  a  way  that  would  have  done  credit  to  pro- 
fessional skill. 

He  would  not  hear  of  his  patient's  riding  back 
to  Sylvania  that  day. 

"Not  a  bit  of  it !"  he  cried,  when  Card  proposed 
it.  "That 's  going  to  be  one  unmercifully  sore  foot 
by  to-morrow ;  and  suppose — " 

He  checked  himself  before  voicing  the  sugges- 
tion that  another  accident  might  possibly  put  the 
foot  badly  out  of  commission.  He  had  the  plains- 
man's idea  that  a  horseman  should  stay  with  his 
mount;  so  he  merely  said  that  he  wanted  to  keep 
an  eye  on  the  foot. 


THE  WELL  IN  THE  DESERT 

"You  can't  be  sure  one  of  the  little  bones  may 
not  be  broken,"  he  explained,  "and  anyway,  we  're 
mighty  glad  to  see  folks  here ;  so  I  guess  we  '11  have 
to  keep  you/'  And  Gard,  more  willing  than  at  the 
moment  he  realized,  accepted  the  invitation. 

It  was  Manuel  Gordo  who,  riding  in  from  the 
upper  range,  saw  the  stranger's  horse,  lathered  and 
excited,  wandering  afield,  and  threw  a  rope  over 
him.  When  he  got  the  bronco  to  the  Palo  Verde 
corrals  and  took  off  the  saddle,  he  gave  a  low,  com- 
prehending whistle.  Under  the  blanket,  well  back, 
but  yet  where  a  rider's  weight  would  press,  was  a 
bit  of  cholla,  the  vicious  fish-hook  cactus  of  the 
desert,  so  disposed  as  to  cause  the  horse  exquisite 
pain, 

Manuel  swore  a  rolling  Mexican  oath  as  the 
thing  caught  his  fingers,  and  stamped  it  into  the 
desert  before  giving  attention  to  the  bronco's  back. 
This,  later,  he  showed  to  Sandy  Larch,  with  a  vivid 
explanation. 

"The  blame  cowards !"  the  foreman  commented. 
"So  they  thought  they  'd  git  'im  that  way,  did  they? 
It  seemed  mighty  queer  to  me  that  he  could  n't  sit 
anything  four-legged  he  was  likely  to  git  in  the 
ord'nary  run,  in  Sylvania;  but  that  pinto  must  'a' 
raged  considerable  with  that  on  its  back." 

"Who  you  think  do-a  that  ?"  Manuel  asked,  and 
the  foreman  told  him  of  the  scene  in  the  Happy 

152 


THE  WELL  IN  THE  DESERT 

Family  Saloon.  "Some  o'  that  gang  's  been  tryin' 
to  get  even,"  he  finished,  and  Manuel  growled  as- 
sent. 

"I*— I  see  that  senor  before  to-day,"  he  ventured, 
hesitating,  "He  one  good  man." 

"Where  'd  you  ever  meet  up  with  'im?"  de- 
manded Sandy.  "Where  'd  he  come  from  ?" 

"Quien  sabe?"  Manuel's  shoulders  lifted.  "It  is 
at  Sylvania  I  see  heem,"  he  added,  non-com- 
mittally,  and  understanding  dawned  upon  the  fore- 
man. 

"You  did,  eh?"  he  laughed,  "An'  he  got  after 
you  an'  made  you  quit  that  spree  you  was  headed 
on,  I  bet.  That  what  you  come  home  so  quick  for  ? 
How  'd  he  round  you  up  ?" 

The  Mexican  grinned,  shamefacedly,  and  Sandy 
laughed  again. 

"He  's  sure  a  sm-buster,"  he  commented,  admir- 
ingly, "But  he  done  you  a  good  turn  that  time, 
Manuel.  The  patron  'd  given  me  orders  to  ever- 
lastingly fire  you  next  time  you  showed  up  after  a 
spree,  an'  I  'd  'a'  sure  done  it  if  you  had  n't  'a' 
been  on  hand  that  mornin'  same  's  usual !" 

Manuel  was  busy  smearing  axle-grease  on  the 
bronco's  back,  to  keep  the  flies  from  its  hurts. 

"The  senor,  he  good  man  all  right,"  he  said,  not 
turning  around,  and  Sandy  Larch,  being  shrewd, 
walked  away  without  further  comment. 

153 


CHAPTER  IV 

AS  Morgan  Anderson  had  predicted,  the  condi- 
-^~*-  tion  of  Card's  foot  next  day  was  such  as  to 
make  him  a  captive.  The  cattleman,  surveying  it 
after  Jacinta  had  given  the  patient  his  breakfast, 
prescribed  rest,  and  forbade  any  thought  of  leav- 
ing the  rancho  inside  of  a  week. 

"You  say  you  came  to  see  me  on  business,"  he 
said,  as  he  stood  looking  down  upon  Gard  where 
he  lay  in  bed  in  a  big,  low-ceiled  room  of  the  casa, 
"Well,  I  'm  off  to  the  upper  range  to-day,  to 
pick  out  some  work-cattle.  I  shall  not  be  able  to 
talk  business  till  night;  so  that  settles  to-day." 

"You  're  mighty  good/'  was  Card's  reply,  "but 
that  business  o'  mine  is  only  to  ask  you  a  question 
that  you  can  answer  in  half  a  minute.  You  must  n't 
think  rt  's  some  matter  of  consequence — to  anybody 
but  me,  that  is,"  he  added. 

"All  right ;  so  much  the  better.  It  '11  keep,  and 
we  can  keep  you." 

Morgan  Anderson  had  taken  a  liking  to  his  un- 

154 


THE  WELL  IN  THE  DESERT 

expected  guest,  and  made  him  welcome  with  true 
western  hospitality.  It  was  long  since  Card  had 
talked  with  a  man  of  his  stamp,  and  the  mere 
sound  of  Anderson's  pleasant,  easy  voice  was  a  joy 
to  him.  It  was  good  just  to  lie  there  and  listen ;  at 
the  same  time,  he  was  concerned  about  his  foot. 
He  wanted  to  be  up  and  about  Kate  Hallard's  bus- 
iness. He  had  not  calculated  that  the  delivery  of 
the  deed  which  he  had  found  in  Arnold's  coat- 
pocket  two  years  before,  would  involve  him  as  it 
had  done. 

.  He  had  come  back  to  civilization  with  a  strong 
purpose.  He  meant  to  make  every  effort  to  rein- 
state himself  in  the  eyes  of  the  law,  and  he  realized 
that  he  must  do  all  that  he  could  before  some 
chance  recognition  should  work  to  hinder  his  ef- 
forts. Nevertheless,  he  told  himself,  the  claim  of 
this  woman  came  first,  Kate  Hallard  had  no  one 
to  fend  for  her,  and  the  responsibility,  in  this  par- 
ticular matter,  had  been  laid  on  him,  Gabriel  Card. 
Later  in  the  forenoon,  when  Anderson  had  rid- 
den away  with  his  men,  Wing  Chang,  the  Chinese 
cook,  acting  upon  the  patron's  instructions,  estab- 
lished Card  in  a  long  steamer-chair,  under  the 
cottonwoods  beside  the  casa.  Hither,  when  he 
was  settled,  came  Helen,  bearing  a  little  tray  on 
which  were  biscuits  and  a  grape-fruit.  Card 
smiled  as  he  saw  her  coming  around  a  corner  of  the 

155 


THE  WELL  IN  THE  DESERT 

casa,  and  answered  her  greeting  with  a  cheery 
"good-morning." 

"I  wondered  where  you  'd  got  to,"  he  began,  and 
stopped,  suddenly,  the  quick  color  rushing  to  his  face. 

"Now  I  just  beg  your  pardon,  Miss,"  he  stam- 
mered, in  piteous  confusion,  "I  mistook — I  thought 
— I  thought  you  were  your  little  sister." 

"I  am,"  laughed  Helen,  putting  the  tray  on  a 
chair  by  his  side. 

"No,  no:  you  must  n't  move  your  foot"  — for 
Card  was  struggling  forward  in  his  steamer-chair. 

"If  you  do,"  she  threatened,  "I  shall  have  to 
scold  you  harder  than  I  did  yesterday." 

He  sank  back,  a  look  in  his  face  of  mingled  cha- 
grin and  wonder.  Helen  was  arrayed  in  white, 
the  simplest  sort  of  a  shirt-waist  suit,  with  a  touch 
of  brown  at  neck  and  belt  and  shoes;  but  to  his 
bewildered  senses  she  was  a  radiant  vision  of  un- 
guessed  daintiness  and  beauty.  There  was  some- 
thing incredible,  to  him,  in  the  idea  of  this  un- 
earthly being  offering  him  food.  He  glanced  from 
her  to  the  tray,  and  back  again. 

"I  don't  know  what  that  is,"  he  said,  indicating 
the  grape-fruit,  "and  I  ain't  sure  I  know  what  you 
are.  I  thought  yesterday  you  were  a  little  girl, 
and  now  you  seem  like  a  young  lady ;  and  I  don't 
seem  right  sure  you  won't  turn  into  a  fairy  in  a 
minute,  and  run  away." 


THE  WELL  IN  THE  DESERT 

"Oh,  Oh!"  Helen  cried,  "What  three-fold  flat- 
tery!" 

Then  it  was  her  turn  to  experience  a  shock ;  for, 
as  she  stood  looking  down  upon  him,  it  suddenly 
became  apparent  to  her  that  this  man  was  young. 

She  had  thought  nothing  about  the  matter,  in 
the  excitement  of  yesterday's  encounter,  and  when 
she  had  walked  beside  him,  seeing  his  bearded  face 
in  her  brief,  upward  glances,  she  had  taken  it  for 
granted  that  he  was  middle-aged,  at  least.  There 
was  something  disconcerting  about  the  unexpected 
revelation  of  youth  in  those  eager  brown  eyes,  in 
the  clear  olive  of  the  face  above  the  strong,  short 
beard,  and  in  the  firm  curve  of  red  lips  just  visible 
under  the  moustache.  She  could  think  of  no  fur- 
ther retort  to  his  pretty  speech,  and  busied  herself 
with  showing  him  h6w  to  eat  the  grape-fruit,  won- 
dering, vaguely,  where  he  could  have  been,  in  the 
desert,  not  to  have  encountered  pomelos. 

"These  are  from  over  the  border,"  she  explained. 
"One  of  the  boys  smuggled  them  in  last  week; 
think  how  wicked  we  are !  But  by  New  Year's  we 
shall  have  some  of  our  very  own." 

"They  're  mighty  good,"  Card  said,  with  no  idea 
of  what  the  fruit  tasted  like.  He  was  still  wrestling 
with  the  awesome  fact  that  Helen  had  prepared  it, 
and  was  teaching  him  to  eat  it.  He  took  more 
sugar  when  she  told  him  to,  though  years  of  absti- 

157 


THE  WELL  IN  THE  DESERT 

nence  from  sugar  had  blunted  his  taste  for  it,  and 
he  shook  his  head  with  very  proper  commiseration 
when  she  told  him  of  the  way  eastern  folk  spoil  the 
fruit  in  preparing  it. 

"I  never  was  back  there,"  he  said,  "I  was  raised 
on  the  prairie;  but  this  is  good  enough  for  me." 

He  looked  beyond  the  fringe  of  cotton  woods, 
out  across  the  plain,  quivering  in  the  mid- forenoon 
heat. 

"Don't  you  like  it?"  he  asked. 

"I  love  it !  It 's  so  big,  and  beautiful,  in  spite  of 
its  dread  fulness;  it 's  so  positive  I"  Helen  was  sit- 
ting on  the  ground,  her  hands  in  her  lap,  her  eyes 
turned  toward  the  far  mountains.  Card  consid- 
ered her  words. 

"Positive :"  he  repeated,  thoughtfully,  "Yes :  it 's 
sure  that.  There  ain't  any  half-way  place,"  he 
added,  drawing  a  deep  breath.  "A  man,  he  gets 
big,  or  he  gets  little,  living  in  it." 

"Oh!"  cried  she;  "you  must  have  been  a  long 
time  in  the  desert  to  find  that  out  4" 

She  went  on,  with  youthful,  unconscious  arro- 
gance: "I  've  lived  here  all  my  life;  but  I  never 
realized  that  until  after  I  came  back  from  college 
this  last  time." 

"Have  you  been  here  long?"  she  added. 

"I  have  n't  been  'round  the  level  much,"  Gard 
answered,  and  after  a  pause  he  added : 

158 


THE  WELL  IN  THE  DESERT 

"I  've  been  in  the  mountains  most  of  the  time/' 

"Then  you  must  have  been  prospecting :  I  hope 
you  struck  pay  dirt  ?" 

"I  did." 

"Good!  So  you  are  a  mining-man-— I  won- 
dered." 

She  had  wondered  about  him.  Gard  turned  the 
thought  over  in  his  mind,  the  while  he  told  her 
something  of  his  discovery  in  the  mountains.  It 
seemed  a  marvelous  thing  that  she  should  have 
thought  of  him  at  all.  Almost  unconsciously  he 
began  telling  her  of  finding  his  claim ;  of  working 
it ;  and  of  Jinny. 

Helen  listened  with  rapt  interest.  She  knew  that 
men  did  go  off  into  the  mountains  as  she  supposed 
Gard  must  have  done.  She  had  talked  with  pros- 
pectors, in  her  lifetime,  but  never  with  one  like 
this. 

"I  suppose  you  will  be  wonderfully  rich  when 
you  begin  working  your  claim  in  earnest,"  she  said, 
at  last,  slowly,  "Shall  you  like  that?" 

"I  think  so.  There  are  some  things  I  want  a 
good  deal"— Ah,  how  much  he  wanted  them:  the 
right  to  freedom;  the  right  to  hold  up  his  head 
among  men.  Card's  desire  for  this  was  increasing 
with  every  moment  that  he  sat  talking  to  this  fair, 
unconscious  girl.  As  he  looked  at  her,  sitting  be- 
fore him  on  the  sparse  grass,  it  came  home  to  him 

159 


THE  WELL  IN  THE  DESERT 

with  fearful  force  that  it  would  be  hard  to  have 
friends  if  his  past  life  must  always  be  a  secret  from 
them. 

"I  suppose  there  are,"  Helen  was  saying,  half 
wistfully,  "Money  brings  so  many  opportunities  to 
a  man." 

"Not  unless  he  's  a  real  man  to  start  with,"  re- 
plied Card. 

"There  's  a  lot  to  be  thought  about,"  he  went  on. 
"I  used  to  think  that  to  give  a  man  plenty  to  eat, 
and  wear,  and  good  things  round  him ;  nice,  beau- 
tiful things  such  as  we  read  about— and  I  guess 
that  you  Ve  always  seen,"  he  explained, — "would 
help  make  a  better  man  of  him. 

"I  don't  believe  it  's  altogether  so,"  he  went  on, 
following  a  train  of  thought  that  he  had  often 
mulled  over,  in  the  glade,  "All  the  good  things  that 
you  can  put  a  man  into  won't  make  any  better  man 
of  him,  if  when  he  did  n't  have  'em  he  was  n't 
trying  to  make  a  better  man  of  himself." 

Helen  pondered  his  saying  in  some  surprise. 

"I  never  thought  of  it  that  way  before,"  she  said, 
at  last,  "but  it  seems  as  if  it  ought  to  be  true." 

"I  guess  it  's  true  enough,"  Card  frowned  a  lit- 
tle, deep  in  thought.  "Jinny  and  I,  we  used  to  fig- 
ure out  't  was,  when  we  talked  things  over."  He 
smiled  into  his  companion's  eyes. 

"When  I  think,  sometimes,  of  what  men  '11  do 
160 


THE  WELL  IN  THE  DESERT 

for  money,  though,"  continued  he,  "I  'most  feel  's 
if  I  did  n't  want  any  of  it." 

"But  it  seems  cleaner  money,  somehow,"  Helen 
interrupted,  "it  5s  different  when  a  man  digs  it  out 
of  the  earth.  He  does  n't  rob,  or  defraud  anybody, 
then ;  and  think  of  all  it  can  do !" 

"Yes."  There  was  a  slow  twinkle  in  Card's  eyes 
as  he  spoke.  "There  's  solid  satisfaction  to  me  in 
thinking  that  one  o'  these  days,  if  I  want  to.  I  can 
get  Jinny  a  solid  gold  collar." 

They  laughed  together  over  this  bit  of  foolish- 
ness, feeling,  suddenly,  that  they  were  very  good 
friends.  It  was  almost  with  a  little  sense  of  some- 
thing unwelcome  that  Helen,  looking  across  the 
level  plain,  saw  a  horseman  in  the  distance,  coming 
toward  the  rancho-gate. 

"Some  one  is  coming,"  she  said,  studying  the 
approaching  figure.  "I  wonder  who  it  can  be; 
Daddy  is  n't  expecting  anyone." 

Card  turned  his  head  and  they  watched  together. 

"It  is  n't  one  of  the  men,"  commented  Helen. 
"He  looks  cityfied,  does  n't  he?" 

It  was  no  careless  cowboy  figure  that  they 
watched.  Whoever  it  was  rode  compactly,  elbows 
down,  and  the  horse  was  not  running,  but  coming 
at  an  easy  'lope. 

"Why!"  the  girl  exclaimed,  after  a  moment  or 
two,  "I  believe  it  's  Mr.  Westcott !" 
11  161 


THE  WELL  IN  THE  DESERT 

The  name  set  Card's  heart  pounding,  but  he  kept 
his  quiet  pose  in  the  steamer-chair,  and  only  the 
faintest  flutter  of  distended  nostrils  betrayed  the 
emotion  that  was  surging  within  him. 

He  had  no  real  fear  that  Westcott  might  recog- 
nize him.  The  lawyer,  as  it  happened,  had  seen 
him  but  twice;  once  at  Phoenix,  just  after  his 
arrest,  and  again  on  the  occasion  of  that  memor- 
able visit  to  Blue  Gulch.  Nevertheless,  Card  was 
thankful  that  he  was  warned  of  the  new-comer's 
approach. 

"Do  you  know  him?"  Helen  asked,  still  watch- 
ing the  rider,  and  Gard  answered,  promptly  enough, 
that  he  had  heard  of  him. 

"He  Js  stopping  at  the  corrals,"  said  Helen,  pres- 
ently. "I  hope  there  's  some  one  there  to  take  his 
horse." 

She  started  off,  with  a  backward  glance  and  a 
smile  for  her  invalid,  and  presently  Gard  saw  her 
going  toward  the  corrals,  followed  by  Wing  Chang. 
She  walked  with  a  light,  springing  step  that  seemed 
to  him  must  be  peculiar  to  her  alone.  He  had  seen 
girls,  back  in  Iowa,  but  they  had  not  walked  like 
that. 

"There  ain't  anybody  like  her/'  he  said,  half 
aloud,  replying  to  his  own  thought.  Then  he  re- 
membered that  happy  glance,  and  smile,  and  a 
shiver  of  pain  ran  through  him. 

162 


THE  WELL  IN  THE  DESERT 

"Heaven  help  me,"  he  muttered,  "She  would  n't 
have  looked  like  that  if  she  'd  known." 

Helen,  in  the  meantime,  was  greeting  West- 
cott,  who  walked  up  to  the  casa  with  her,  leaving 
his  horse  for  Chang  to  unsaddle  and  turn  in.  He 
had  come  up  to  Sylvania  to  see  a  man,  he  ex- 
plained, and  when  he  got  where  the  man  was,  why 
the  man  was  not  there*  He  showed  his  handsome, 
even  teeth  in  a  merry  smile  at  his  own  jest,  and 
somehow  managed  to  convey  to  Helen  the  idea  that 
the  man  "was  n't  there"  for  the  reason  that  he  was 
afraid  to  meet  him,  Ashley  Westcott. 

"It  's  just  a  game  of  bluff  some  smart  Aleck  is 
trying  to  play  on  me,"  he  added,  with  pleasant 
carelessness ;  "It  is  n't  of  much  importance,  except  as 
it  gives  me  the  excuse  I  'm  always  glad  of,  to  ride 
out  here.  I  shall  have  to  wait  over,  a  day  or  two,  to 
give  the  fellow  a  chance  to  make  good,  I  dare  say." 

His  eyes  narrowed  when  he  was  introduced  to 
Card.  Kate  Hallard  had  written  to  him,  three  days 
before,  and  the  letter  had  brought  him  to  Sylvania 
in  a  hurry.  He  had  seen  Mrs.  Hallard  and,  there- 
fore, Card's  name  had  significance  for  him. 

He  seated  himself  in  the  chair  from  which  Ja- 
cinta  had  long  since  removed  the  tray,  and  made  a 
casual  inquiry  about  Card's  hurt.  Card  explained 
it  briefly,  giving,  to  Helen's  immense  relief,  none 
of  the  details. 

163 


THE  WELL  IN  THE  DESERT 

"I  was  in  Sylvania  this  morning,"  Westcott  re- 
marked, taking  the  glass  of  ice  and  the  bottle  of 
ginger  ale  that  Jacinta  brought  him.  "Came  up 
from  Tucson,  and  got  that  brute  of  a  stage  at 
Bonesta." 

"It  is  a  horrid  ride,"  Helen  commented. 

Card  said  nothing,  and  Westcott  and  Helen 
chatted  indifferently  for  a  few  moments  of  matters 
common  enough,  the  news  and  talk  of  the  territory, 
yet  as  new  to  Card,  in  large  measure,  as  though  he 
had  been  a  foreigner.  The  lawyer  turned  to  him 
again,  irritated  by  his  silent  scrutiny. 

"I  saw  your  friend  Mrs.  Hallard  in  Sylvania," 
he  said,  "She  was  a  good  deal  worried  to  know 
what  had  become  of  you." 

Card's  eyes  flashed,  but  his  reply  was  given  in  a 
low,  even  tone. 

"That  was  mighty  kind  of  her,"  he  said,  "I  calcu- 
lated to  be  on  hand — we  reckoned  you  'd  be  coming 
soon.  When  you  go  back  you  can  ease  her  mind, 
and  let  her  know  I  'm  all  right." 

Helen  looked  puzzled.  She  was  not  familiar 
with  Sylvania,  although  it  was  the  post  office  town 
of  the  rancho,  but  she  knew,  in  a  vague  way,  who 
Mrs.  Hallard  was.  It  would  have  been  difficult  not 
to  know,  when  there  were  but  half  a  dozen  white 
women  within  a  radius  of  fifty  miles.  She  could  not 
think  of  her,  however,  as  a  friend  of  this  new  ac- 
164 


THE  WELL  IN  THE  DESERT 

quaintance.  She  had  seen  Mrs.  Hallard  once,  and 
Westcott's  apparently  chance  remark  had  exactly 
the  effect  he  had  calculated.  It  troubled  her,  and 
disturbed  the  atmosphere  of  friendliness  which  he 
had  dimly  felt  between  the  girl  and  Card,  when  he 
saw  them  together. 

"It  seems  curious  to  find  Mr.  Card  here,"  the 
lawyer  went  00,  addressing  Helen.  "He  is  just  the 
man  I  came  to  Sylvania  to  see.  You  can  bank  on  it 
I  did  not  expect  to  meet  him  when  I  rode  this  way." 

He  overshot  his  mark,  that  time,  going  too  far 
in  his  anxiety  to  produce  an  impression  unfavora- 
ble to  Card.  Helen's  hospitality  was  touched,  and 
her  sympathy  enlisted  for  her  guest.  Whatever 
his  friendship  for  Mrs.  Hallard,  of  whom  she 
really  knew  nothing  definite,  she  did  not  believe 
that  the  man  who  sat  there  regarding  them  both 
with  serene  eyes,  would  ever  be  afraid  to  meet  Ash- 
ley Westcott. 

She  looked  from  one  to  the  other,  and  Card 
smiled  as  he  answered  the  lawyer's  remark,  speak- 
ing to  her  rather  than  to  the  other. 

"Yes,"  he  said,  "I  'm  the  man.  I  told  Mrs.  Hal- 
lard," he  added,  glancing  at  Westcott.  "to  tell  you 
to  see  me." 

"I  shall,  all  right,"  the  lawyer  replied,  pointedly, 
and  turned  to  ask  Helen  some  question  about 
her  father.  She  was  glad  of  the  diversion,  and 

165 


THE  WELL  IN  THE  DESERT 

went  into  detail  about  his  errand  to  the  upper 
range. 

"We  're  going  to  have  an  orchard/'  she  ex- 
plained, "Father  had  some  trees  put  in  three  or 
four  years  ago ;  I  believe  he  must  have  sat  and  held 
their  heads  all  the  while  I  was  away,  and  watered 
them  with  a  teaspoon." 

The  others  joined  in  her  laugh  at  the  vision  con- 
jured up  of  Morgan  Anderson  playing  nurse  to 
desert  trees. 

"They  are  only  a  few  grape  fruit,  and  a  date 
palm  or  two,"  Helen  went  on,  "but  they  have  kin- 
dled his  ambition,  and  now  he  is  planning  for 
oranges,  and  apricots." 

"Has  he  got  the  trees  yet?"  Card  asked. 

"Mercy,  no !  Our  needs  are  still  more  elemental 
than  that.  He  has  gone  after  some  cattle  to  'gen- 
tle' for  plowing.  Can't  you  just  see  those  wild-eyed 
long-horns  figuring  in  pastoral  idyls  on  the  plain  ?" 

Westcott  grinned,  but  before  either  man  could 
comment  Wing  Chang  appeared  from  the  direction 
of  the  adobe  structure  that  served  him  for  kitchen, 
and  beckoned  Helen  to  a  domestic  conference. 

"Wing  Chang's  official  beck  is  equal  to  a  royal 
summons,"  she  said,  lightly,  "so  I  shall  have  to  be 
excused  for  a  season." 

When  she  had  departed  the  two  men  regarded 
each  other  for  a  little  space.  Westcott  took  out 

166 


THE  WELL  IN  THE  DESERT 

paper  and  tobacco,  offering  them  to  Card.  The 
latter  declined  them  and  the  lawyer  began  rolling 
himself  a  cigarette. 

"I  take  it  you  're  an  attorney,  Mr.  Card?"  he 
began,  in  a  tone  of  careless  query,  as  he  struck  a 
match. 

At  Card's  negative  he  held  the  little  taper  alight 
in  his  finger  for  an  instant,  while  he  stared  in  sur- 
prise. 

"Oh,"  he  said,  recovering  himself  quickly,  and 
lighting  his  cigarette,  "I  thought  you  must  be.  I 
rather  figured," — with  a  laugh  which  he  meant  to 
be  irritating,  "that  you  were  a  young  attorney,  or 
a  new-comer  in  the  territory,  and  trying  to  scare 
up  business."  He  puffed  a  cloud  of  smoke  into  the 
air  and  regarded  his  companion  through  it,  with 
veiled  eyes.  "  'T  was  rather  natural,  don't  you 
think  ?"  he  persisted,  with  a  sneer,  "considering  the 
nature  of  the  little  game  up  at  Sylvania  ?" 

Still  Card  did  not  speak.  He  had  put  his  well 
foot  to  the  ground,  and  curled  the  other  leg  up 
that  he  might  lean  forward,  and  he  sat  regarding 
Westcott  with  quiet  attention. 

"I  suppose  you  know,  anyway,"  the  latter  finally 
said,  with  a  very  good  assumption  of  contempt, 
"Anybody  with  a  headpiece  might,  whether  he  's  a 
lawyer  or  not,  that  neither  my  client  nor  I  need 
feel  obliged  to  pay  any  attention  to  the  matter." 


THE  WELL  IN  THE  DESERT 

Card  seemed  to  turn  the  remark  over  in  his  mind. 

"Then  what  made  you  come  up  here?"  he  finally 
asked. 

"That  's  easy,"  Westcott  answered,  scornfully. 
"I  wanted  to  see  who  was  trying  to  make  a  fool  of 
poor  Kate  Hallard.  I  don't  wish  her  any  harm, 
and  I  wanted  to  put  her  wise  that  she  's  being  used 
by  some  sharper,  in  a  queer  game." 

"I  guess  you  '11  think  better  o'  that  before  we 
get  through,  Mr.  Westcott,"  Card  said,  with  de- 
liberation. 

"Not  much  I  won't."  Westcott  was  admiring 
the  rings  he  had  blown  into  the  air.  "Fact  is,  my 
friend,"  he  went  on,  with  an  air  of  easy  confidence, 
"the  more  I  think  of  your  little  scheme  the  less  I 
think  of  it.  In  the  first  place,  it  won't  work.  My 
client  is  in  possession.  That  's  nine  points,  you 
know.  By  way  of  a  tenth  point,  he  has  a  quit 
claim  from  Mrs.  Hallard — " 

"That  's  one  item,"  Card  interrupted,  softly, 
"that  I  guess  you  won't  care  to  dwell  on,  when  the 
matter  comes  to  be  pushed." 

"Pushed !"  Westcott  ignored  the  first  part  of  the 
speech.  "I  tell  you,  man,"  he  cried,  "you  've  got 
nothing  that  can  be  pushed!  That  deed  you  an' 
Kate  Hallard  pretend  to  have  found  has  n't  a  leg 
to  stand  on.  You  'd  better  be  careful  you  don't  get 
into  trouble  with  it." 

168 


THE  WELL  IN  THE  DESERT 

"I  'm  going  to,  Mr.  Westcott,"  the  slow,  calm 
tone  made  the  lawyer  feel  uneasy,  he  could  not 
have  told  why. 

"If  it  will  save  you  any  trouble,  my  friend,"  he 
sneered,  at  the  same  time  keeping  a  close  watch  on 
the  other's  face,  "I  '11  tell  you  that  I  saw  some  time 
ago,  in  a  Chicago  paper,  that  Jared  Oliphant  is  out 
of  commission— softening  of  the  brain.  I  suppose 
you  were  n't  banking  any  on  him,  though  ?" 

"We  're  banking  on  facts,"  was  Card's  reply. 

"And  Sawyer  's  skipped  the  country." 

"Who  's  Sawyer  ?"  Card's  question  came  quick 
and  sharp,  nailing  Westcott's  blunder  fast.  The 
lawyer  looked  blank  for  an  instant,  then  recovered 
himself. 

"Why  Kate  Hallard  seemed  to  think  you  were 
going  to  get  some  help  through  him,"  he  lied;  "but 
I  know  Sawyer.  You  can't  do  it." 

"You  must  have  known  him,"  Card  said,  "if  you 
know  he  witnessed  that  deed;  for  Kate  Hallard 
never  told  you." 

Westcott  stared  out  at  the  desert.  He  was  play- 
ing a  desperate  game,  and  he  knew  it.  He  would 
have  given  much  to  understand  the  inscrutable  man 
who  sat  opposite  him.  He  did  not  feel  that  he  did 
understand  him,  fully ;  nevertheless,  he  had  his  own 
theories  of  the  stuff  men  are  made  of,  and  pres- 
ently he  leaned  forward. 

169 


THE  WELL  IN  THE  DESERT 

"Look  here,  Card/'  he  said,  "This  is  mighty 
poor  business  for  a  man  like  you  to  be  in." 

He  spoke  rapidly;  for  Miss  Anderson  had  just 
appeared  at  the  door  of  the  adobe  kitchen,  still  talk- 
ing to  Wing  Chang. 

"I  don't  know  what  you  expect  to  make  by  it," 
Westcott  went  on ;  "but  I  don't  want  Kate  Hallard 
to  get  into  any  trouble.  She  can't  establish  that 
deed.  It  's  no  more  use  to  her  than  so  much  blank 
paper.  But  I  've  got  certain  things  in  view.  I  'm 
going  into  politics  in  this  territory,  and  there  are 
reasons  why  I  don't  want  a  thing  like  this  coming 
up.  You  know  how  things  get  garbled—"  He  hes- 
itated, and  then  went  on,  with  a  glance  in  the  direc- 
tion of  the  girl,  who  was  now  approaching. 

"Between  ourselves,"  he  said,  rapidly,  "what  's 
the  reason  you  and  I  can't  do  business  together  ?" 

He  regarded  his  companion  narrowly.  Helen 
had  stopped,  near  the  casa,  and  was  scanning  the 
desert  from  under  her  hand. 

"What  do  you  say?"  Westcott  all  but  whispered. 
Gard  looked  at  him  a  full  moment  before  he  spoke : 

"I  guess  we  could  n't  do  business  together,"  he 
said,  slowly,  "But  I  guess  we  shan't  need  to,  Mr. 
Westcott ;  because  you  're  going  to  fix  this  matter 
up  right.  You  're  going  to  give  Mrs.  Hallard  back 
the  property  you  stole  from  her,  or  else  you  're 
going  to  pay  her  the  full  value." 

170 


THE  WELL  IN  THE  DESERT 

"Or  else?" 

There  was  a  battle  of  eyes  between  the  two  men. 
Westcott's  flinched,  finally,  and  sought  the  horizon. 

"There  ain't  any  other  'or  else/  "  Card  said,  at 
last.  "It 's  going  the  way  I  stated." 

Westcott  had  arisen,  sneering,  but  before  he 
could  speak  again  Helen's  voice  broke  in  upon 
them: 

"They  're  coming !"  she  cried,  joining  her  guests. 
"You  'd  think  they  had  a  whole  drove  of  cattle, 
from  the  noise." 

A  cloud  of  white  dust  far  on  the  desert  had  re- 
solved itself  into  a  flurry  of  men,  horses  and  cattle, 
coming  in  on  a  run.  There  was  a  thunder  of  hoofs, 
and  a  chorus  of  yells,  and  presently  the  "gentle" 
work-cattle  were  being  herded  into  one  of  the 
corrals. 

One  of  the  horsemen  separated  himself  from  the 
group  and  rode  on  to  the  casa.  This  was  Morgan 
Anderson,  and  he  shouted  greeting  to  Westcott 
as  he  swung  from  the  saddle.  He  came  into  the 
shade  of  the  cottonwoods  firing  a  volley  of  genial 
questions,  and  giving  bits  of  detail  about  the  morn- 
ing's work,  until  Helen  reminded  him  that  it  was 
close  upon  dinner-time.  That  meal  was  taken  at 
noon,  at  the  Palo  Verde,  so  Anderson  excused  him- 
self to  clean  up.  He  was  dusty  and  begrimed  from 
the  hot  day's  work.  He  carried  Westcott  off  as 

171 


THE  WELL  IN  THE  DESERT 

well,  to  remove  the  traces  of  his  own  long  ride,  and 
as  Helen  had  already  gone  into  the  house,  on  some 
domestic  errand,  Card  was  left  alone. 

The  temporary  solitude  was  welcome,  and  he  lay 
back  in  the  long  chair  half  dizzied  by  the  thoughts 
and  memories  that  besieged  his  brain.  Uppermost, 
for  the  instant,  was  an  intense,  grateful  sense  of 
relief.  Westcott  had  so  plainly  not  recognized  him 
that  he  might  consider  one  source  of  immediate 
danger  to  himself  removed.  He  would  probably 
be  able  to  carry  this  business  through  with  no  other 
difficulties  than  lay  in  the  matter  itself. 

There  would  be  plenty  of  these.  Westcott  would 
see  to  that.  He  was  evidently  fully  aware  of  the 
position  he  was  in,  and  would  let  no  scruples  stand 
in  the  way  of  protecting  himself. 

"He  '11  do  just  about  anything— "  Card  spoke 
half  aloud,  then  checked  himself,  recalling  that 
this  was  not  the  solitude  of  the  glade. 

"He  '11  make  a  big  fight,"  he  thought,  "both  to 
keep  the  property  and  to  escape  being  punished." 

"Punished!" 

The  word  came  home  to  him  with  stunning 
force.  The  punishment  for  this  crime,  if  Kate 
Hallard  saw  fit  to  press  the  matter,  was  jail ! 

And  Kate  Hallard  would  probably  do  what  he 
advised. 

Sudden  fierce  exultation  leaped  into  the  man's 
172 


THE  WELL  IN  THE  DESERT 

heart.  Beneath  his  quiet  he  had  been  deeply  stirred 
by  the  encounter  with  Westcott. 

"I  wonder  how  he  would  like  being  in  jail?"  he 
thought,  grimly,  and  brought  himself  sternly  into 
line  again. 

"There  ain't  any  right  of  way  for  me  there.  I 
must  stop  that,"  he  whispered,  the  knuckles  of  his 
big  hands  white  as  wool  under  the  strain  of  clasp- 
ing his  chair-arms. 

The  next  instant  he  sat  upright,  staring  out 
across  the  hot  sand,  but  seeing  only  the  vision  of 
Helen's  dainty  maiden  loveliness.  The  thought  of 
his  heart  sent  the  blood  from  his  face. 

"I  've  settled  my  account  with  Ashley  Westcott," 
he  muttered,  "God  knows  I  Ve  settled  my  account ; 
but  if  that  is  what  he  's  aiming  to  do—" 

He  shivered,  sinking  back  into  his  chair.  Wing 
Chang  was  approaching  with  a  tray  of  food. 

"If  that  is  what  it  is,"  Card  finished  to  himself, 
turning  to  greet  the  Chinaman,  "Then  I  guess  Mr. 
Ashley  Westcott  and  I  will  have  to  open  a  new  ac- 
count ;  and  he  wants  to  look  out." 


173 


CHAPTER  V 

i 

'TNO  Westcott's  secret  delight  Morgan  Anderson, 
A  going  after  dinner  to  see  that  his  other  guest 
had  been  properly  served,  found  Gard  fast  asleep 
in  the  long  chair. 

"We  '11  let  him  have  his  siesta  out,"  said  his  host. 
"I  don't  suppose  he  got  any  too  much  sleep  last 
night,  with  that  foot.  Helen,  you  and  I  can  take 
Westcott  to  see  the  new  corrals." 

This  arrangement  was  entirely  to  Westcott's 
pleasure.  He  knew,  from  past  experience,  that  the 
cattleman  would  promptly  become  interested  in 
some  problem  of  the  range,  and  leave  his  enter- 
tainment to  Helen. 

He  strolled  by  her  side  as  they  made  their  way 
to  the  corrals,  and  put  from  his  mind  the  uneasy 
thoughts  that  kept  intruding.  In  spite  of  his  defi- 
ance, he  was  horribly  afraid  of  what  Gard  and 
Mrs.  Hallard  might  be  able  to  do.  He  did  not 
know  how  they  would  move  to  establish  the  deed, 
but  he  was  in  a  position  that  would  make  publicity 

174 


THE  WELL  IN  THE  DESERT 

awkward.  How  he  wished  he  knew  where  the 
paper  had  been  found !  To  get  any  help  from  Oli- 
phant  he  believed  was  out  of  the  question,  and  he, 
himself,  had  been  unable  to  find  Sawyer.  He  was 
sure  that  Gard  could  not  get  hold  of  him ;  and  if  he 
should,  he  knew  how  to  fix  the  fellow.  He  had  one 
more  card  up  his  sleeve,  and  would  play  it,  if  Saw- 
yer appeared. 

But  after  this!  He  stole  a  glance  at  the  girl 
walking  beside  him.  He  wanted  money ;  he  wanted 
power;  he  wanted  position — to  offer  her.  He  was 
almost  where  he  just  now  aspired  to  be  on  the  po- 
litical ladder.  He  had  not  tried  for  small  things ; 
he  was  after  the  District  Attorneyship,  and  it  was 
coming  his  way,  now.  Another  year,  and  then, 
.  .  .  by  Heaven!  Everything  was  going  to  be 
straight !  There  should  be  nothing  that  those  clear 
gray  eyes  might  not  see ! 

But  this  matter  must  not  come  out !  He  would 
see  Mrs.  Hallard  in  the  town  while  Gard  was  laid 
up.  His  career  should  not  be  ruined,  just  as  he  was 
getting  where  he  could  hold  up  his  head  and  choose 
the  straight  path.  He  was  weary  in  his  soul  of  the 
other. 

Helen  looked  up  with  a  glance  of  inquiry. 

"They  seem  to  be  long,  long  thoughts,"  she  said, 
with  a  smile. 


175 


THE  WELL  IN  THE  DESERT 

"They  are,"  was  the  quick  response.  "I  was 
thinking  of  my  ambitions." 

"If  it  were  so,  it  were  a  grievous  fault,"  she 
quoted,  gaily. 

"I  don't  think  so !"  He  threw  out  his  chest  and 
looked  down  at  her  from  his  full  height.  "A  man  's 
bound  to  have  ambitions  of  some  sort,"  he  said, 
"They  're  a  measure  of  himself.  Of  course  I  have 
mine.  I  want  the  things  I  want  when  I  can  get 
them ;  but  I  want  them,  nevertheless,  and  I  mean  to 
have  them." 

"Such  as  a  gold  collar  for  your  donkey?"  Helen 
asked,  enigmatically. 

Westcott  looked  puzzled,  but  she  did  not  ex- 
plain. 

"Not  exactly  that,"  he  finally  said,  "If  my 
donkey  won't  go  without  a  gold  collar  I  'm  sorry 
for  him ;  because  he  's  going  just  the  same.  He  's 
got  to  carry  me,  'For  the  good  of  the  order/  This 
Territory  needs  men,  Miss  Anderson :  and  I  mean 
to  be  one  of  the  men  that  it  needs." 

"Oh !  That  is  good !"  Helen's  sympathetic  re- 
sponse quickened  what  Westcott,  if  he  had  charac- 
terized it,  would  have  called  his  good  impulse. 

"There  's  a  lot  that  needs  straightening  out 
within  our  lines,"  he  said,  "And  I  want  the  chance 
to  help  in  the  work.  At  any  rate,  it  's  not  an  ig- 
noble ambition." 


THE  WELL  IN  THE  DESERT 

"Indeed  it  is  not."  Helen  had  never  before  seen 
Westcott  in  this  mood,  and  she  rather  reproached 
herself  that  she  did  not  feel  a  keener  response. 
She  felt  that  she  had  not  done  him  justice. 

"I  am  glad  you  think  about  those  things,"  she 
told  him.  "Father  talks  to  me,  sometimes,  and  I 
know  that  he  is  often  troubled.  It  seems  as  if  every 
man  is  solely  for  himself.  We  need  those  who  can 
see  wrong  in  high  places,  as  well  as  low ;  and  who 
have  courage  to  combat  it." 

Westcott  felt  a  pang  of  wretchedness  as  he  an- 
swered her  frank  glance.  He  realized  that  she 
would  despise  him  if  she  knew  some  of  things 
that  he  had  done,  and  he  winced  in  the  realization. 
But  he  meant  to  leave  all  that  behind.  He  would 
do  something  for  Mrs.  Hallard,  and  once  he  had 
won  this  splendid  girl  he  would  walk  the  open  way. 
Heavens !  What  could  a  man  not  do,  with  such  a 
helpmate ! 

A  sudden  sense  of  his  own  unworthiness  brought 
unwonted  humility  into  his  heart.  Ashley  West- 
cott had  never  before,  in  his  grown-up  life,  been  so 
near  to  feeling  a  noble  impulse. 

"Miss  Anderson,"  he  said,  "I  'm  afraid  I  should 
never  come  up  to  any  ideal  of  yours ;  but  I  aim  to 
do  as  near  right  as  I  know  how." 

They  were  at  the  corrals  now,  where  the  cattle- 
man, who  had  drawn  ahead,  was  already  talking  to 

177 


THE  WELL  IN  THE  DESERT 

Sandy  Larch  about  some  young  horses  that  were 
to  be  got  ready  for  shipment  east,  before  spring. 
Polo  ponies  from  the  Palo  Verde  enjoyed  a  good 
market  back  in  "The  States." 

In  one  of  the  corrals  the  future  work-cattle  were 
penned,  half-a-dozen  head,  lean,  leggy  brutes,  wild- 
eyed  and  ugly.  They  kept  together,  moving  rest- 
lessly about  in  a  bunch,  watching  the  visitors  sul- 
lenly, and  occasionally  lunging  at  one  another  with 
wide,  wicked  horns. 

"They  're  beauts,  for  fair,"  Sandy  Larch  re- 
marked, "Only  they  can't  seem  to  make  up  their 
minds  to  look  it  in  public.  They  're  that  kind  o' 
modest  vi'lets." 

"  'T  won't  be  exactly  a  Sunday  school  picnic  to 
break  them  in."  Westcott  remarked,  looking  them 
over. 

"Sure  it  will,"  said  Sandy,  impressively.  "Why 
them  cows  will  be  door-yard  pets,  once  they  're 
handled.  Their  bad  looks  is  just  a  yearning  for 
appreciation.  That  one,  now—" 

He  tossed  a  little  clod  into  the  blazed  face  of  one 
huge  steer  that  had  moved  a  little  apart  from  the 
others.  It  was  a  vicious-looking  brute,  and  stood 
lowing,  sullenly. 

"That  there  blaze- faced  cow  '11  be  coaxing  fer  su- 
gar out  'n  your  hand  in  a  week's  time,  Miss  Helen," 
Sandy  declared.  "Can't  you  see  it  in  his  eye?" 


THE  WELL  IN  THE  DESERT 

Helen  could  not  see  it,  and  said  so,  frankly.  A 
cowboy,  minded  to  reach  the  further  corral,  where 
the  young  horses  were,  sprang  down  into  the  in- 
closure  with  the  cattle,  and  started  across. 

In  an  instant  the  big  red  steer  came  charging 
upon  him,  with  mischief  in  his  eye.  The  cowboy 
saw  the  brute,  and  dodging,  made  a  rapid  sprint 
for  the  nearest  fence,  clambering  over  it  amid  the 
derisive  shouts  of  the  spectators.  The  man's  sud- 
den scramble  had  brought  him  within  a  few  feet  of 
Westcott  who,  turning  to  look  at  him,  made  a  ges- 
ture of  recognition. 

"Hullo,  Broome !"  he  said :  "I  did  n't  know  you 
were  down  here." 

"Looks  like  I  was  on  the  spot,"  the  fellow  an- 
swered, "I  bin  holdin'  it  down  fer  about  a  week." 

"I  heard  you  went  prospecting,"  Westcott  con- 
tinued, and  Broome  swore,  under  his  breath. 

"Came  mighty  near  cashin'  in  that  trip,"  he 
growled,  and  then  he  drew  nearer,  with  a  quick 
glance  at  the  others,  who  were  walking  on  toward 
the  horse  corral. 

"Say,  Mr.  Westcott,"  he  muttered,  "Have  you 
seen  that  there  feller  up  't  the  casa?  Him  with 
the  hair  mattress  on  his  face?" 

"Do  you  mean  Card  ?"  Westcott  asked  in  amaze- 
ment. 

"Yep:  that  's  his  name.  Damn  him  an'  it!  I 
179 


THE  WELL  IN  THE  DESERT 

met  up  with  him  on  my  'tower.'  He  's  some  buf- 
falo now;  but  he  was  haired  up  like  a  bug-house 
billy-goat  then.  But  say,  Mr.  Westcott:  he  'd 
struck  it  rich ;  got  a  streak  o'  color  that  fair  stunk 
o'  gold,  back  in  the  mountains.  I  want  to  tell  you 
'bout  it." 

Westcott  looked  after  his  companions. 

"I  can't  stop  to  hear  it  now,  Broome,"  he  said. 
"Shall  you  be  round  when  I  leave  here?  I  '11  talk 
to  you  then." 

"I  'm  goin'  to  be  workin'  with  the  horses  all  the 
afternoon,"  Broome  answered.  "We  're  goin'  to 
be  bustin'  'em  out,  an'  that  's  one  o'  my  jobs." 

He  added  the  last  with  a  good  deal  of  pride,  and 
Westcott  nodded. 

"I  '11  see  you,  then,"  he  said,  moving  off. 

"Do  you  know  Broome?"  Mr.  Anderson  asked, 
when  Westcott  overtook  the  others. 

"Pretty  well" ;  was  the  reply.  "I  knew  him  up 
north.  He  was  cow-punch  for  a  friend  of  mine, 
and  I  used  to  be  up  there  a  good  deal.  He  's  a 
good  hand  with  horses." 

"So  he  claims,"  Anderson  said.  "He  blew  in 
the  other  day,  bragging  that  he  's  a  first  class 
bronco-buster.  We  're  pretty  short,  so  Sandy  took 
him  on.  I  don't  think  much  of  his  looks." 

"Oh,  he  's  all  right."  Westcott  spoke  carelessly. 
"A  good  many  singed  cats  look  worse." 

180 


THE  WELL  IN  THE  DESERT 

Sandy  Larch  had  gone  up  to  the  cook's  quarters  on 
an  errand,  and  passing  the  casa  found  Card  awake. 

"Hullo,  Mr.  Larch,"  the  latter  called,  espying 
him. 

"Mister  Larch?"  Sandy  made  a  pretense  of 
looking  for  the  person  addressed.  "Where  'd  you 
keep  'im  ?"  he  asked,  with  elaborate  solicitude. 

"Keep  who?" 

"Mister  Larch." 

"They  ain't  no  such  party  hereabouts,"  he  went 
on  before  Gard  could  reply.  "Leastwise  you  don't 
know  'im.  Dudes,  an'  Chinks,  they  nominates  me 
Mister  Larch ;  because  the  first  don't  know  *  no 
better,  an'  the  others  they  has  to,  er  git  busted  good 
an'  plenty.  But  to  my  friends  I  'm  Sandy.  ' 

"I  believe  it!"  laughed  Gard.  "I  guess  your 
friends  find  you  all  sand,  when  they  need  the  ar- 
ticle." 

Sandy  looked  at  him  with  frank  admiration. 

"Say:  now  you  're  shouting,"  he  cried.  "I  like 
that  there.  Speakin'  o'  bouquets,  you  could  n't  'a* 
handed  me  a  prettier  one  if  you  'd  set  still  to  think 
it  up  fer  a  week." 

"Glad  you  like  it,"  replied  Gard.  "I  meant  it  to 
be  liked." 

"Like  it  ?  Say !  you  just  combed  my  hair  nice, 
did  n't  you  ?  An*  when  you  need  someone  to  weigh 
out  sand  you  just  buscar  me,  Mr.  Gard." 

181 


THE  WELL  IN  THE  DESERT 

"No  you  don't;  you  drop  that!"  Card  looked 
stern. 

"Drop  what?"  demanded  Sandy,  startled. 

"Your  Mister  Card.  That  rule  of  yours  has  got 
to  work  both  ways,  and  my  name  is  Gabriel." 

There  was  a  twinkle  in  the  brown  eyes;  but 
Card's  tone  was  inflexible. 

"Gabriel !"  gasped  Sandy.  "Lord !  How  do  you 
git  off  at  it?  Gabriel" ;  he  repeated,  "Shoot  me  if 
I  can  git  a  rope  over  that." 

"Glory  be!"  A  gleam  of  fun  crossed  his  anx- 
ious face.  "That  name  's  too  long  for  every  day," 
he  said,  "But  I  can  fix  it :  I  '11  call  you  Angel,  if 
you  like.  Angel  Gabriel.  That  's  great !  That  's 
how  we  '11  fix  it.  Angel  on  week-days ;  Gabriel  on 
Sundays,  an'  Angel  Gabriel  on  Fourth  o'  Julys,  an* 
when  I  'm  drunk.  Angel  Gabriel  's  a  first  rate 
name  fer  a  amachoor  sin-buster  to  sport." 

"You  '11  drop  that,  too."  Gard  seized  one  of 
the  cushions  Helen  had  supplied  his  chair  with,  and 
hurled  it  at  the  cow-puncher.  "Don't  you  go  mak- 
ing fun  of  my  name  when  I  'm  down,"  he  cried. 
"Sandy,  you  've  got  to  call  me  Gard." 

He  held  out  his  hand  and  Sandy  grasped  it, 
cordially. 

"I  like  you,  Gard,"  said  he,  with  quick  serious- 
ness. "We  're  partners  for  fair  if  you  say  so.  If 
you  need  friends,  as  I  expressed  a  while  back, 

182 


THE  WELL  IN  THE  DESERT 

you  '11  know  where  to  look  fer  one  of  'em;  you 
won't  fergit  it?" 

"Never,"  Card  said,  heartily,  and  Sandy  drew 
back.  The  others  were  coming  up  from  the  cor- 
rals. 

"I  never  was  hard  on  any  man  unless  I  thought 
he  needed  it,  Gard,"  remarked  Sandy,  looking  to- 
ward them.  "But  that  there  Westcott— well  I  '11 
be  damned  if  I  kin  'go'  him.  He  can  rope  'n  hog- 
tie  the  law,  'n  brand  it  ten  different  ways  while 
you  're  lookin'  one ;  but  I  bet  he  ain't  always  goin' 
to  git  away  on  time. 

"Say,  Gard:  he  's  mighty  sleek  to  look  at,  an* 
women  like  sech;  but  if  I  thought  he  was  likely  to 
git  a  rope  over  our  pretty  filly  there— damned  if  I 
would  n't  wanter  let  a  little  daylight  through  'im." 

So  Sandy,  too,  had  his  fears.  Gard's  eyes  nar- 
rowed as  he  surveyed  the  approaching  group. 

"Shucks,  Sandy !"  he  exclaimed.  "You  want  to 
keep  away  from  the  loco  patches,  man.  He 
could  n't  do  it !" 

The  thought  of  Helen's  frank,  pure  eyes  put 
unnecessary  emphasis  into  his  speech;  but  Sandy 
was  pleased. 

"Good  talk !"  he  cried,  with  a  long  breath  of  re- 
lief. "Guess  I  'm  some  of  an  old  fool;  but  I  've 
seen  the  little  gal  grow  up  from  that  high,"  meas- 
uring an  incredibly  short  distance  above  the  desert, 

183 


THE  WELL  IN  THE  DESERT 

"An'  you  put  in  a  pin  where  I  tell  you,  Card :  that 
there  Westcott  's  a  tarantula  an'  a  side-winder  all 
into  one;  an'  some  day  you  '11  know  it." 

"I  guess  that 's  no  lie,  Sandy."  Gard's  face  was 
pale,  and  his  eyes  wore  a  strange  look.  He  spoke 
very  low;  for  the  others  were  coming  within  ear- 
shot. 

"Guess  I  '11  mosey  along,"  the  foreman  said. 
"I  come  a  driftin'  up  here  after  some  hog-grease, 
an'  I  '11  have  to  buscar  Chang  fer  't." 

He  walked  off  in  the  direction  of  the  kitchen  as 
the  others  began  talking  to  Gard.  Half  an  hour 
afterwards  Anderson  was  waving  adios  to  West- 
cott, from  the  great  rancho  gateway. 

The  attorney  rode  out  on  the  desert,  glorious  in 
the  afternoon  light,  and  taking  a  wide  sweep 
turned  back  by  way  of  the  corrals.  A  cow-puncher 
who  had  beer  squatting  against  one  of  the  fences, 
waiting,  got  up  as  he  came  in  sight,  and  shuffled 
out  to  meet  him. 

"What  did  you  want  of  me,  Broome?"  Westcott 
asked  at  once. 

Broome  lounged  up  against  the  fence,  his  hands 
in  his  pockets. 

"I  been  playin'  in  a  hell  o'  luck  lately,  Mr.  West- 
cott," he  said. 

Westcott  made  a  move  as  if  to  ride  on. 

"If  it 's  nothing  but  a  hard  luck  story,"  he  began. 
184 


THE  WELL  IN  THE  DESERT 

"No,  no.  It  ain't."  Broome  laid  a  restraining 
hand  on  the  pony's  mane. 

"I  want  ter  know  who  that  feller  is  up  yonder." 
He  jerked  his  head  toward  the  casa,  at  the  same 
time  characterizing  Card  after  a  manner  entirely 
to  his  own  mind. 

"I  don't  know  him  from  a  hole  in  the  post," 
Westcott  said,  with  great  apparent  candor.  "What 
makes  him  get  on  your  nerves  so  ?" 

"He  give  me  the  double  cross  an'  the  grand 
throw-down,  sure,  all  in  the  same  shuffle,"  Broome 
said,  with  a  snarl. 

"Where  was  that." 

"Sommers  in  the  mountains.  I  was  lost  in  the 
desert ;  pretty  near  cashed  in,  an'  I  met  up  with  this 
feller.  He  took  me  inter  camp,  hell  of  a  outfit. 
Everything  made  outer  nothing,  same  's  a  Papago 
where  they  ain't  no  settlement  handy.  He  was 
eatin'  tree  beans,  an'  shootin'  game  with  a  bow- 
arrer,  an'  he  had  all  sorts  o'  scare-crow  Bible  verses 
wrote  up  round  like  a  Sunday  school.  Sufferin' 
snakes !  You  never  see  the  beat  of  it !" 

"I  don't  know  as  I  ever  want  to,"  Westcott  said, 
impatiently.  "Drive  on,  Broome." 

"I  'm  a  drivin'.  Gimme  time.  Say,  Mr.  West- 
cott :  the  cuss  'd  struck  it  rich  up  there,  like  I  told 
you.  Got  a  vein  o'  yeller  laid  open  like  a  roarin* 
buttercup." 

185 


THE  WELL  IN  THE  DESERT 

"Got  it  staked  and  located,  too,  I  suppose,"  the 
lawyer  said,  with  a  sneer.  "Bite  it  off,  Broome: 
what  are  you  driving  at?" 

"I  tell  you  I  am  bitin'  it  off,"  was  the  sullen  re- 
joinder. "I  tell  you  there  's  gold  to  burn  up  there. 
It 's  the  damndest,  likeliest  place  you  ever  see." 

"Why  did  n't  you  prospect  a  little  too?" 

"Prospect !"  Broome  swore,  savagely. 

"That  there  locoed  buffalo  he  tried  to  kill  me, 
when  he  found  I  'd  discovered  the  vein.  He  'd  took 
me  up  the  trail  clean  dopy,  an'  he  brought  me  down 
blindfold,  with  my  hands  tied,  on  the  back  of  a 
damned  little  she-ass ;  so  I  would  n't  know  how  to 
git  back  there." 

"Oh,"  Westcott  jeered.  "And  what  you  want  of 
me  is  to  take  you  by  the  little  hand  and  lead  you 
back  there  and  let  you  dig  ?" 

"No  I  don't  neither!  I  got  a  good  scheme,  an' 
I  want  ter  let  you  in  on  it.  You  done  a  lot  fer  me, 
once,  Mr.  Westcott." 

"You  bet  I  did,"  was  Westcott's  response.  "You 
owe  me  the  price  of  your  own  neck,  whatever  that 
may  be  worth  to  you ;  but  I  can't  see  where  you  're 
going  to  pay  it  out  of  this  scheme." 

"I  'd  a  done  it  all  right  by  now  if  that  feller 
had  n't  nearly  killed  me,"  Broome  said. 

"Why  did  n't  he  quite  kill  you  if  he  wanted  to?" 
asked  Westcott,  incredulously. 

186 


THE  WELL  IN  THE  DESERT 

"Hell !  /  dunno,"  was  the  frank  admission ;  "I  'd 
a  done  him  good  an'  plenty,  you  bet ;  but  he  did  n't, 
an'  here  I  am." 

Westcott  sat  his  horse,  waiting,  with  an  elabo- 
rate assumption  of  patience. 

"Here  's  what  I  'm  thinkin'  of,"  began  Broome, 
talking  fast.  "I  'm  busted,  Mr.  Westcott :  I  ain't 
got  even  a  bronc  o'  my  own;  but  if  I  c'd  git  any- 
body to  grub-stake  me,  I  'd  go  up  the  railroad  to 
where  Card  left  that  burro— I  know  the  place  all 
right— an'  I  'd  git  'er;  I  'd  know  'er  by  a  big  scar 
on  one  shoulder.  An'  you  bet  the  hash  once  she 
was  out  on  the  desert  she  'd  strike  fer  that  there 
camp  in  the  mountains.  She  's  that  kind.  He 
tamed  her  out  o'  the  wild,  he  said,  an'  she  never 
knowed  no  other  place." 

"Then  what  would  you  do  ?" 

"Be  Johnnie  on  the  spot,"  replied  Broome.  "Git 
in  an'  dig.  In  the  same  place,  mebby." 

"Do  you  mean  jump  it?"  The  question  was 
put  in  a  low  tone. 

"I  ain't  sayin'  what  I  mean ;  but  I  mean  all  't  's 
necessary  to  git  back  the  rights  that  feller  done 
me  out  of." 

Westcott  considered,  looking  thoughtfully  out 
on  the  desert. 

"It  's  risky,"  was  his  comment,  at  length. 

"I  ain't  askin'  you  to  risk  it,"  growled  the  other. 

187 


OF  THE 
•  M  i\/r  rsc?  i-rv 


THE  WELL  IN  THE  DESERT 

"All  I  want  o'  you  's  a  grub-stake,  an'  I  '11  divvy 
fair." 

"I  should  advise  you  to."  The  quiet  voice  was 
full  of  meaning. 

"I  will,  fer  fair.    Will  you  do  it?" 

"I  '11  think  about  it" ;  Westcott  spoke  in  an  ordi- 
nary tone.  "There  may  be  a  fair  prospecting 
chance  in  it,"  he  continued.  "I  '11  see  you  again. 
I  would  n't  do  any  talking  if  I  were  you,"  he 
added. 

Broome  regarded  him  with  sullen  scorn. 

"Think  I  'm  a  damned  tenderfoot  to  go  shootin' 
off  my  mouth  ?"  he  demanded. 

The  lawyer  made  no  reply  as  he  rode  away, 
while  Broome  went  back  into  the  shade.  Wing 
Chang,  darting  around  a  corner  of  the  fodder- 
sheds,  to  make  sure  which  way  he  turned,  came 
face  to  face  with  Sandy  Larch,  walking  in  the 
direction  of  the  horse-corrals,  his  surprised  eyes 
following  Westcott's  vanishing  figure. 

"Mistlee  Westclott,"  said  Chang,  noting  the 
foreman's  interest.  "Him  an'  Bloome  have  long 
talkee-talkee  out  there,  allee  samee  heap  chin- 
chin." 

"So  do  you,  you  heap  heathen,"  replied  the 
foreman.  "What  you  doin'  down  here?" 

The  Chinaman  grinned,  full  of  friendliness. 

"Sam  Lee  kid  say  you  come  look  see  for  hog 
188 


THE  WELL  IN  THE  DESERT 

lard  when  me  gone.  When  come  back  I  bling 
him." 

He  held  out  a  broken  bean-pot  containing  the 
desired  article.  Sandy  Larch  took  it,  sniffing  it 
critically. 

"Good  boy,  Chang,"  he  said,  in  approval.  "And 
you  just  remember  this  that  I  tell  you:  Broome 
an'  Mr.  Westcott,  they  Ve  most  likely  bin  ar- 
rangin'  a  series  o'  Salvation  Army  joss  meetings, 
fer  to  convert  all  you  Chinks.  Sabbee  dat?" 

"Me  sabbee." 

"All  right,  then ;  you  just  sashay  back  an'  git  on 
your  cookin'  job.  That  's  all." 

He  put  a  broad  hand  on  the  Chinaman's  shoul- 
der and  turned  him  about. 

"Alice  lightee,"  Wing  Chang  said,  and  went  his 
way,  smiling,  inscrutably. 


189 


CHAPTER  VI 

I'm  sure  you  ought  to  have  stayed  longer/' 
Helen  Anderson  said.  "Such  a  hurt  as  you 
had  can't  be  well  by  now." 

Card,  from  the  saddle,  thrust  forth  his  hurt 
foot  and  moved  it  about. 

"It  has  got  well,  first  rate/'  said  he,  medita- 
tively. "Your  father  can  sure  get  his  certificate  off 
me,  any  day." 

He  spoke  lightly,  not  glancing  at  the  upturned, 
troubled  face.  He  spoke  truthfully.  His  foot 
was  well  on  the  road  to  recovery,  but  he  knew,  in 
his  heart  of  hearts,  that  he  was  running  away  from 
the  Palo  Verde,  and  that  his  resolution  to  do  so 
was  not  very  strong. 

"It  's  the  first  time  you  have  been  on  a  horse 
since  that  day,"  Helen  continued.  "Would  n't  you 
do  better  to  go  in  the  buckboard,  after  all  ?" 

He  knew  that  hers  was  but  the  solicitude  of  the 
hostess;  but  the  kindly  interest  of  her  tone  was 
like  nectar  to  him.  It  drew  his  eyes  to  hers,  which 
190 


THE  WELL  IN  THE  DESERT 

suddenly  sought  his  stirrup.  Gard  pulled  himself 
up  with  a  jerk. 

"I  '11  be  all  right/'  said  he,  with  a  sudden  stiff- 
ening of  voice  and  manner.  "I  ought  to  Ve  gone 
before." 

She  drew  back,  a  little  coldly. 

"It  's  too  bad  you  Ve  been  detained,"  she  said, 
and  he  could  not  bear  it. 

"It  ain't  that,"  he  said,  quickly.  "I  'd  like  to 
stay.  I  don't  know  how  to  tell  you  how  I  'd  like 
to  stay.  But  I  Ve  got  to  go.  And  anyway,  I  must 
be  in  Sylvania  soon  's  possible.  There  's  a  heap  of 
things  I  Ve  got  to  do.  I—" 

He  realized  that  he  was  getting  beyond  bounds, 
and  was  glad  that  Morgan  Anderson  came  up  from 
the  corrals  just  then. 

"Here  's  your  last  chance,  if  you  want  to 
change  your  mind  and  go  in  the  buckboard,"  the 
cattleman  called. 

The  buckboard,  with  a  team  of  broncos  driven 
by  one  of  the  men,  was  already  driving  away. 
Strapped  at  the  back  was  Card's  suit-case,  which 
Anderson  had  insisted  upon  having  brought  out 
from  the  hotel  in  Sylvania.  Gard  felt  quite  sure 
that  he  preferred  to  ride,  and  Anderson  gave  it  as 
his  opinion  that  that  was  the  best  way  to  travel. 

"Better  'n  railroad  trains,  or  automobiles,"  he 
declared,  and  quoted,  as  a  clincher  to  his  opinion, 

191 


THE  WELL  IN  THE  DESERT 

"  'A  good  man  on  a  good  horse  is  nobody's 
slave/  " 

Card  had  been  at  the  rancho  five  days;  five 
wonderful  days,  they  were  to  him,  and  he  felt  that 
he  dared  not  stay  another  hour.  The  cattleman 
had  not  been  able  to  help  him  much,  on  the  business 
that  had  been  his  errand  to  the  Palo  Verde.  Ash- 
ley Westcott  had  been  diligent  in  seeking,  a  couple 
of  years  before,  to  learn  what  had  become  of  Saw- 
yer, after  he  acknowledged  the  Oliphant  deed  to 
Ed  Hallard;  but  it  had  never  occurred  to  him  to 
mention  the  young  notary  to  Morgan  Anderson. 

Curiously  enough,  however,  the  first  person 
whom  Card  had  asked  about  the  notary,  after 
learning  of  Mrs.  Hallard's  trouble,  had  referred 
him  to  the  cattleman.  It  was  this  fact  that  had 
brought  him  out  to  the  Palo  Verde. 

Anderson  remembered  the  young  fellow.  Saw- 
yer had  "developed  lungs"  in  Sacramento,  and  had 
come  down  to  the  desert  in  search  of  health.  He 
had  got  better,  Anderson  knew,  and  had  "gone 
back  inside"— he  thought  to  San  Francisco.  He 
gave  Card  the  address  of  a  correspondent  of  his 
own  in  that  city,  who  might,  he  thought,  be  able 
to  furnish  Sawyer's  address. 

"I  wish  I  could  have  helped  you  more  in  what 
you  wanted  to  know,"  Anderson  said,  shaking 
hands  with  his  guest.  "But  you  come  out  again 
192 


THE  WELL  IN  THE  DESERT 

while  you  're  down  this  way,  and  maybe  we  '11 
have  better  luck  all  round." 

Card  thanked  him,  and  with  another  word  or 
two  to  Helen,  rode  away.  Anderson  stood  watch- 
ing him,  long  after  the  horse  and  rider  had  become 
a  mere  speck  on  the  yellow  desert. 

"There  's  something  awfully  likable  about  that 
chap,  Sis,"  he  remarked  to  the  girl  at  his  side. 
"But  he  puzzles  me,  too." 

"Yes?"  Helen  answered,  absently,  and  her 
father  glanced  at  her  quickly. 

What  he  saw  seemed  to  reassure  him.  She  was 
bending  over  Patsy,,  whose  paw  had  come  into 
painful  contact  with  prickly  pear. 

"That  means,  little  dog,"  she  told  him,  "that 
you  will  have  to  stay  at  home." 

She  searched  the  hurt  member  to  make  sure  that 
the  thorns  were  all  out. 

"Yes"— she  was  still  bent  over  Patsy's  foot  as 
she  answered  her  father's  remark— "he  is  likable. 
.  .  .  There,  Patsy,  don't  make  a  fuss/'  She  bound 
up  the  paw  in  her  handkerchief. 

"I  do  not  know  that  he  puzzled  me,"  she  went 
on,  straightening  up.  "I  thought  he  seemed' 
rather  lonely,  though." 

"He  's  not  likely  to  be  that,  long,"  was  Ander- 
son's reply.  "It  's  a  thundering  pity,  too.  I 
understand  he  's  in  deep  with  that  Hallard  woman, 

193 


THE  WELL  IN  THE  DESERT 

though  I  've  tried  not  to  believe  it.  She  don't 
seem  his  kind.  I  asked  him  to  come  here  again," 
he  went  on,  a  little  ruefully;  "and  yet  I  'm  not 
sure  I  meant  it." 

"What  kind  of  woman  is  this  Mrs.  Hallard, 
Father?"  Helen  regarded  her  father  now,  with 
interest  in  her  level  grey  eyes. 

"Why,"  Anderson  said,  doubtfully.  "She  's  not 
the  kind  I  should  think  would  catch  him.  It  's  a 
case  of  catch,  all  right,  though,  I  guess;  even 
Westcott  seemed  to  know  about  it." 

He  considered  a  moment,  frowning. 

"She  's  loud,  and  coarse,  I  suppose;  but  she  's 
a  mighty  handsome  woman,  if  a  man  don't  care 
about  some  other  things.  And  I  somehow  should 
think  Card  would.  I  like  a  different  sort,  myself." 

He  glanced  proudly  at  the  figure  beside  him. 
Helen  was  in  her  riding-habit,  waiting  for  her 
horse  to  be  brought  round. 

"But  she — she  's  only  a  rough  kind,  is  all  you 
mean,  is  n't  it?"  Her  face  flushed,  ever  so  little. 

"Oh,  Kate  Hallard  's  a  decent  sort,  all  right 
enough,  I  dare  say,"  Anderson  hastened  to  an- 
swer. "Of  course  there  's  always  talk.  I  've 
heard  some  myself,  but  I  discounted  it.  In  the 
first  place,  she  's  hard  as  nails.  No  nonsense 
about  her.  Not  her.  Her  tongue  's  tipped  with 
vitriol,  and  when  she  opens  her  mouth  the  men 
194 


THE  WELL  IN  THE  DESERT 

catch   it."     Anderson   shrugged   his   shoulder  a 
trifle. 

"And  then,  of  course,"  said  he,  "There  's  no  tell- 
ing about  Card.  He  may  be  a  little  more  attracted 
than  he  might  want  to  be,  and  yet  have  strength 
enough  to  pull  out  of  it  and  get  away." 

"I  should  call  that  being  weak,  if  he  cared!" 
cried  Helen,  indignantly. 

"Oh,  I  don't  know."  Her  father  took  Dickens' 
bridle-rein  from  the  puncher  who  had  brought  the 
pony  up. 

"It  all  depends  upon  how  a  man  looks  at  some 
things,"  he  said,  throwing  the  reins  into  place. 

Helen  took  them  and  prepared  to  mount,  a  hand 
on  the  cantel. 

"The  one  thing  I  don't  like  about  this  way  of 
riding,"  said  Anderson,  "is  that  it  curtails  our 
privileges.  You  don't  need  helping  on." 

Helen  sprang  to  the  saddle,  adjusting  herself 
with  a  little  shake. 

;  'T  would  only  hinder,"  said  she,  smiling,  "like 
every  other  help  we  don't  need." 

She  flushed  suddenly,  as  she  realized  that  she 
was  quoting  a  saying  of  Card's. 

"You  keep  Patsy  here,  won't  you  ?"  she  called  as 
she  rode  away,  leaving  her  father  looking  after 
her  with  an  expression  half  proud,  half  wistful  and 
wholly  tender. 

195 


THE  WELL  IN  THE  DESERT 

"She  's  clean  grown  up,"  said  he,  to  himself,  as 
he  stooped  and  snapped  the  leash  into  Patsy's  col- 
lar. 

"The  bonnie  thing!  Lord!  How  I  wish  her 
mother  was  alive !" 

He  stood  staring  out  upon  the  sun-washed 
desert,  wide,  silent,  baffling,  and  spoke  the  yearn- 
ing thought  of  his  heart. 

"I  don't  know  how  to  be  a  mother  to  her,  and 
she  's  sure  going  to  need  one.  Lord,  Lord !"  He 
cast  a  comprehensive  glance  over  the  fierce,  bril- 
liant landscape.  "This  is  an  all-right  country  for 
men  and  burros,"  he  said,  with  a  half -whimsical 
sigh,  "but  it  's  a  mighty  hard  one  for  women  and 
horses!" 

Helen  had  promised  Jacinta  to  ride  as  far  as 
Old  Joe  Papago's,  to  see  Mrs.  Old  Joe  about  a 
young  Indian  girl  who  was  to  come  and  help 
Jacinta  with  the  work  of  the  casa.  Old  Joe 
was  better  off,  financially,  than  any  other  Papago 
in  the  section,  and  his  wife,  who  was  reputed  to 
have  some  Spanish  blood,  exercised  a  sort  of 
guardianship  over  the  women  and  young  girls  of 
their  settlement.  This  latter  was  only  three  or 
four  miles  distant,  and  there  was  a  slight  ting  in 
the  December  air  that  quickened  Dickens'  nerves, 
and  made  him  ready  for  a  frolic,  but  Helen  was  in 
no  mood  to  gratify  him.  She  ignored  all  his  in- 
196 


THE  WELL  IN  THE  DESERT 

vitations  to  run,  and  kept  him  to  the  slow  little 
walk  of  the  bronco. 

He  hated  it  and  fretted  under  the  steady  rein; 
but  fpr  once  Helen  did  not  heed  him.  She  was 
going  over  in  her  mind  the  events  of  the  past  five 
days.  Westcott,  in  the  brief-  space  of  his  hour 
with  her,  had  sought  to  sow  the  seeds  of  doubt  of 
Card  in  her  mind.  He  had  spoken  vaguely  of  cer- 
tain tricky  games  that  the  stranger  was  trying  to 
play  upon  him,  and  an  imagination  less  pure  than 
the  girl's  might  have  inferred  much  from  the 
subtle  little  that  he  let  fall  regarding  Kate  Hallard. 

The  carefully  chosen  seed,  however,  had  found 
no  favoring  soil — no  fostering  care.  Helen  was 
herself  of  too  true  and  sturdy  a  fiber  to  doubt  the 
truth  and  the  stability  of  Card's  nature.  She  dis- 
missed, with  hardly  a  thought,  the  suggestion  of 
trickery  on  his  part,  and  the  other  poisoned  arrows 
wholly  missed  their  intended  mark. 

"There  's  a  lot  of  ways  of  thinking  about  any 
one  thing,"  Gard  had  said  one  day,  as  they  talked 
out  long,  long  thoughts  of  life,  and  right,  "But  a 
man — he  's  got  to  follow  the  straightest  path  he 
sees;  for  he  's  got  to  live  so  he  can  like  himself, 
and  care  to  be  with  himself." 

Yes:  that  was  what  he  would  do,  without  fail. 
He  saw  straight,  and  he  would  follow  the  straight 
path.  Oh!  It  was  good  to  feel  trust  in  one's 
197 


THE  WELL  IN  THE  DESERT 

friends !  Something  of  the  peace  and  serenity  that 
Card  himself  had  won  out  of  solitude  and  despair 
fell  upon  her  spirit  at  thought  of  his  clear  vision, 
and  steady  holding  of  the  right. 

Yet  her  heart  was  heavy.  She  told  herself  that 
this  was  because  she  feared  for  the  ultimate  happi- 
ness of  one  friend.  She  remembered  her  father's 
words  about  Mrs.  Hallard:  "coarse;  hard;  her 
tongue  tipped  with  vitriol."  Surely  they  must  be 
unjust,  or  this  man,  who  was  fine  and  true,  would 
not  care.  He  could  not  care.  Perhaps  he  would 
come  to  see  before  it  was  too  late,  and  would  "pull 
out  and  get  away."  But  no:  that  he  would  not 
do.  His  was  a  steadfast  nature;  of  that  she  was 
sure! 

BEFORE  Old  Joe  Papago's  door,  reins  dropped  to 
the  sand,  stood  a  stout  roan  horse,  and  leaning 
against  the  door-post,  talking  to  Mrs.  Old  Joe,  was 
a  woman  dressed  in  khaki.  It  needed  but  a  single 
glance  to  tell  Helen  who  it  was. 

The  blonde  head  turned  as  the  girl  rode  up,  and 
the  big  black  eyes  surveyed  her  comprehensively, 
but  there  was  no  sign  of  recognition  in  the  hard, 
impassive  face.  Mrs.  Old  Joe  grunted  a  response 
to  Helen's  greeting,  and  the  latter  dismounted. 

Acting  upon  a  sudden  impulse  she  came  close  to 
the  woman  by  the  doorway. 

198 


THE  WELL  IN  THE  DESERT 

"Good-morning,"  she  said,  simply,  holding  out 
her  hand.  "This  is  Mrs.  Hallard,  is  n't  it?  I  am 
Helen  Anderson." 

"Pleased  to  meet  you,"  Mrs.  Hallard  said,  appar- 
ently not  seeing  the  outstretched  hand.  Kate 
Hallard  had  no  mind  to  be  patronized:  but  she 
studied  the  girl's  face,  stealthily,  and  the  bold  eyes 
grew  a  shade  softer. 

She  did  not  know  that  Card  had  left  the  Palo 
Verde  that  morning.  Westcott,  who  had  tried 
hard  to  come  to  some  sort  of  terms  with  her,  in 
the  other  man's  absence,  had  told  her  that  the 
latter  would  probably  let  himself  be  detained  at 
the  rancho  for  a  fortnight,  at  least.  He  had 
drawn  a  vivid  picture  of  Card  making  the  most 
of  this  opportunity  to  win  a  way  into  Miss  Ander- 
son's good  graces.  The  lawyer's  methods  had 
been  primitive.  He  sought  to  play  upon  the 
woman's  presumable  capacity  for  jealousy,  and 
thus  set  her  against  Gard. 

He  might  have  saved  himself  the  mental  wear 
and  tear.  Kate  Hallard  was  not  a  fool;  nor  a 
devotee  of  the  heart-complication  school  of  fiction. 
She  held  no  illusions  about  Gard's  attitude  toward 
herself,  and  she  had  come  to  believe  in  him,  pas- 
sionately. Nevertheless,  Westcott's  efforts  had 
awakened  in  her  a  keen  interest  in  Helen. 

"I  expect  you  are  on  the  same  errand  as  my- 
199 


THE  WELL  IN  THE  DESERT 

self,"  the  girl  was  saying,  determined  not  to  be 
repulsed.  "Mrs.  Joe  keeps  all  the  girls  in  her 
reboso" 

She  spoke  in  Spanish,  that  the  Indian  woman 
might  not  feel  left  out  of  their  talk,  and  the  latter 
smiled,  toothlessly. 

"My,  no!"  exclaimed  Mrs.  Hallard.  "You  don't 
catch  me  taking  on  girls  to  look  after.  I  'm  on  the 
buscar  for  a  boy." 

"And  have  you  succeeded  ?" 

"Not  I!  They  ain't  lookin'  for  work;  not  the 
bucks;  an'  she  would  n't  trust  me  with  a  girl,  not 
even  if  I  'd  take  one." 

She  laughed,  defiantly,  and  the  young  girl 
divined,  instinctively,  that  she  did  so  because 
she  was  ill  at  ease.  She  stood  looking  at  her,  wist- 
fully. 

Did  Gabriel  Card  really  love  this  woman?  Was 
she  really  coarse,  and  hard,  and  vitriolic  of  tongue, 
as  her  father  had  said?  It  could  not  be;  or  such 
a  man  could  not  care.  There  must  be  another  side, 
and  shame  be  upon  her,  Helen  Anderson,  if  she 
could  not  win  it  to  the  surface. 

"I  wonder—  "  she  began,  with  some  hesitation. 
"Of  course  I  don't  know  what  you  want,  but  Wing 
Chang,  our  cook,  has  a  young  cousin — or  some- 
thing— visiting  him.  He  came  a  few  days  ago, 
with  some  teamsters  from  the  mines.  I  think 

200 


THE  WELL  IN  THE  DESERT 

Chang  does  not  want  to  take  him  on.  He  was 
scolding  about  it,  yesterday." 

The  defiance  was  gone  from  Mrs.  Hallard's 
face,  and  a  little  look  of  friendliness  crept  among 
its  hard  lines. 

"Why,  if  he  's  old  enough  to  wait  on  table," 
said  she,  "I  dare  say  he  'd  be  just  what  I  want." 

"Oh,"  Helen  replied,  "I  know  that  he  can  do 
that.  He  must  be  about  sixteen  years  old,  and  he 
has  waited  in  restaurants."  She  did  not  add  that 
that  was  one  reason  why  neither  she  nor  Chang 
cared  for  the  lad's  services.  "Why  can't  you  ride 
back  to  the  rancho  with  me  and  see  him  yourself?" 
she  asked,  instead. 

"Why,  I  'd  take  it  right  good  of  you  if  I  could," 
Kate  Hallard  said,  after  a  moment's  hesitation. 
Mrs.  Old  Joe  had  departed  to  find  the  mother  of 
Jacinta's  prospective  handmaiden,  and  they  were 
speaking  English. 

"  'T  ain't  no  meanness  in  me  that  won't  have  a 
girl  round,"  she  added,  as  if  wishing  to  set  herself 
right  with  her  hearer,  "but  I  want  some  one  to 
sling  victuals,  at  the  grille,  an'  I  can't  have  any 
half-baked  girl-squaws  round.  Men  's  devils;  I 
can't  look  after  them  an'  girls  too." 

"Oh!"  Helen  spoke  in  impulsive  protest,  and 
Mrs.  Hallard's  laugh  was  hard  again. 

"You  don't  believe  what  I  said  about  men,  I 

201 


THE  WELL  IN  THE  DESERT 

guess/'  she  said,  and  Helen  answered  very  simply : 
"Of  course  not;  it  could  n't  be  true  you  know, 

so  long  as  women  are  not— what  you  said." 

"I  ain't  so  sure  about  the  women — not  most  of 

'em—"     Mrs.   Hallard's  handsome  face  wore  a 


sneer  now. 
u 


Anyway,"  she  argued,  "they  's  plenty  of  'em 
doin'  their  share  o'  the  devil's  business  in  the 
world." 

"But  there  are  good  men,"  Helen  persisted,  "and 
good  women,  too." 

"Right  you  are  about  there  bein'  some,"  was  the 
reply;  "but  I  draw  the  line  at  there  bein'  many. 
I  've  lived  in  this  world  thirty  years,  nearly,  child, 
an'  I  ain't  found  such  a  lot.  I  know  one  good 
man  though." 

Her  face  softened,  and  at  the  sight  a  thrill 
stirred  Helen's  pulses.  She  felt  sure  that  Mrs. 
Hallard  was  speaking  of  Card.  There  was  soft- 
ness under  that  hard  shell  after  all. 

Before  she  could  say  anything  more,  however, 
Mrs.  Old  Joe  returned  to  the  hut  with  the  Papago 
girl  and  her  mother,  and  she  set  her  mind  to  the 
faithful  performance  of  Jacinta's  errand.  It  was 
quickly  arranged  that  the  handmaiden  should  be 
brought  at  once  to  the  Palo  Verde,  and  the  matter 
completed,  the  two  white  women  rode  away  to- 
gether. 

202 


THE  WELU  IN  THE  DESERT 

A  soft  wind  was  blowing  across  their  faces;  a 
wind  full  of  the  essential  odor  of  the  desert:  im- 
palpable, a  little  acrid,  bracing  withal,  and  subtly 
suggestive  of  mystery,  and  of  vastness.  Helen 
threw  back  her  head,  yielding  to  the  desert  spell. 

"Oh !"  she  cried,  "this  is  the  place  to  be,  after 
all.  Don't  you  feel  so  about  it?"  she  demanded  of 
her  companion. 

"I  don't  know,"  Kate  Hallard  was  watching 
her,  puzzled.  "I  never  was  away  from  it.  Some- 
times it  makes  me  ache." 

"Ache?"    It  was  the  girl's  turn  to  be  mystified. 

"Yes."  The  woman  could  not  have  told  why 
the  hidden  thoughts  of  her  heart  suddenly  became 
articulate  at  this  girl's  invitation  to  speech. 

"It  always  seems  to  me  as  if  the  desert — wants 
something,"  she  explained,  hesitatingly.  "I 
d'  know  what  't  is,  but  the  feeling  's  there:  a  sort 
of  emptiness,  as  if  it  wanted  to  cry  and  could  n't. 
Sometimes  at  night,  when  I  hear  a  burro  'yee-haw,' 
or  a  coyote  howlin',  seems  to  me  like  's  if,  if  the 
desert  could  cry  that  's  the  kind  o'  noise  it  would 
make.  It  's  like  lonesome  women— if  there  's  any 
sense  in  that!"  she  added  with  a  half-ashamed 
laugh. 

Helen's  heart  was  full  of  sympathy  that  she  felt 
was  but  partially  understanding.  So  this  was  what 
the  desert  had  brought  to  this  hard-seeming  woman. 
203 


THE  WELL  IN  THE  DESERT 

She  had  a  sudden  sorry  realization  that  the  mar- 
velous waste  had  never  told  its  ache  to  her,  dearly 
as  she  loved  it,  and  with  the  realization  came  the 
knowledge  that  the  woman  beside  her  understood 
because  she  had  truly  lived  and  suffered  in  it.  It 
came  to  her  to  wonder  if  Card  had  ever  felt  the 
ache  of  the  desert. 

"Do  you  ever  want  to  get  away  from  it?"  she 
asked,  softly. 

"I  d'  know,"  her  companion  considered. 

"I  ain't  never  known  what  anything  else  is  like," 
she  finally  said,  helplessly,  "but  seems  to  me  you 
git  to  feel  like  's  if  you  was  part  of  the  desert,  an' 
something  would  break  if  you  got  too  far  off." 

Ah !  That  Helen  knew.  She  had  hungered  for 
the  desert,  even  if  she  had  never  ached  with  it. 

"It 's  the  place  of  places  for  me,"  cried  she,  tak- 
ing off  her  hat  and  letting  the  wind  stir  her  hair. 

Kate  Hallard  studied  her,  wonderingly.  She 
had  known  few  women  in  her  life;  never  before 
so  youthful  a  one.  She  wondered  what  Gabriel 
Card  had  thought  of  this  girl. 

"Mr.  Card  's  at  the  rancho  ain't  he  ?"  she  asked, 
and  Helen's  cheek  paled  for  an  instant.  The  older 
woman  noted  the  fact  with  a  fierce  little  pang. 

"He  went  back  to  Sylvania  this  morning,"  Helen 
answered,  and  the  other  looked  her  surprise. 

"I  did  n't  suppose  he  'd  git  away  so  quick,"  she 
204 


THE  WELL  IN  THE  DESERT 

said.  "Sandy  Larch  was  in  yesterday  an'  said  he 
was  in  for  another  week.  If  I  'd  known  he  was 
comin'  in  I  would  n't  a'  gone  off,"  she  added,  and  a 
sense  of  the  desert's  ache  crept  into  Helen's  own 
heart. 

Yes:  Mrs.  Hallard  was  right:  it  was  a  lonely 
place. 

ARRIVED  at  the  Palo  Verde,  the  girl  called  Wing 
Chang,  telling  him  the  business  of  the  moment, 
and  directed  him  to  send  in  his  young  relative. 
Then  she  took  Mrs.  Hallard  to  her  own  room,  a 
big,  low-ceilinged  place,  with  wide  windows  look- 
ing out  toward  the  far  mountains.  Kate  gazed 
about  her  wistfully.  She  had  seen  few  women's 
rooms  in  her  life-time. 

This  one  was  the  sort  of  composite  suggestion  of 
dear  girl  and  nice  boy  that  the  modern  college 
girl's  room  is  apt  to  be.  Cushions  blazoned  with 
the  initials  of  Radcliffe  and  of  Harvard  heaped  a 
couch  covered  with  the  skin  of  a  mountain  lion 
that  Helen  herself  had  shot.  Among  the  pretty 
trifles  on  the  dresser  was  a  practical-looking  little 
revolver,  and  from  one  of  the  two  hooks  that  held 
her  light  rifle  hung  an  illumined  panel  bearing  the 
arms  of  Radcliffe.  A  cartridge-belt  hung  from 
another  hook,  and  beneath  it,  on  a  stand,  lay  a  bit 
of  dainty  embroidery  which  she  had  been  working 
on  that  very  morning. 

205 


THE  WELL  IN  THE  DESERT 

Beside  it  was  a  fat  little  book  bound  in  age- 
yellowed  vellum.  Kate  Hallard  picked  this  up  and 
glanced  through  it,  curiously. 

"Is  this  Chinese  ?"  she  asked,  bewildered. 

Helen  explained  that  it  was  Greek,  and  the 
woman  laid  it  down  with  a  weary  little  laugh. 

"I  ain't  never  been  out 'n  the  territory,  as  I  said," 
she  explained,  half  defiantly.  "Men  's  about  the 
only  books  I  ever  read,  an'  Lord !  they  're  mostly 
writ  plainer  'n  that." 

"I  have  n't  known  many,"  Helen  answered,  "ex- 
cept my  father — and  one  or  two  others." 

"One  or  two  's  likely  to  be  samples  o'  the  rest," 
the  other  remarked,  carelessly.  "I  suppose  you 
know  an  awful  lot?"  she  continued,  glancing  at 
Helen's  book-shelves.  She  had  never  before  seen 
so  many  books  together. 

"I  know  just  enough  to  realize  that  I  am  dread- 
fully ignorant."  Helen's  face  was  troubled;  the 
older  woman  yearned  toward  her.  She,  alas! 
could  think  of  nothing  in  her  own  experience  that 
was  likely  to  be  of  use  to  the  girl. 

Wing  Chang's  cousin  just  at  this  instant  ap- 
peared, silently,  in  the  doorway. 

"Oh,  Lee/'  Helen  cried;  "Mrs.  Hallard  wants 
to  see  you." 

"Chang  say  come,"  the  boy  replied,  "I  come 
quick  's  could.  Me  velly  good  waiter  boy,"  he 
206 


THE  WELL  IN  THE  DESERT 

added  without  preamble,  turning  to  Kate  Hallard. 
"Thinkee  takee  your  job." 

"Land  sakes!"  laughed  she;  "he  's  none  so  slow, 
is  he?" 

"Can  you  wait  on  customers  as  prompt  as  all 
that?"  she  asked  of  the  boy. 

"Me  velly  good  boy,"  he  repeated,  gravely, 
"makee  hash  fli  allee  same  like  hellee." 

"Lee!"  Helen  looked  shocked.  "You  should 
wait  to  see  whether  Mrs.  Hallard  wants  you,"  she 
finished,  rather  tamely. 

Lee  looked  at  her  in  surprise.  "No  can  help,"  he 
announced,  conclusively,  "China  boy  velly  scarce; 
no  can  get  many ;  him  got  take  me ;  one  velly  good 
boy."  He  glanced  again  at  Mrs.  Hallard. 

"I  go  get  clo',"  he  concluded,  imperturbably. 
"Go  skippee  Sylvania.  See  you  later." 

He  was  gone,  without  circumlocution,  and  Helen 
surveyed  her  visitor  a  little  helplessly.  "I  '11  have 
Chang  talk  to  him,"  she  said. 

"No  need,"  laughed  the  other.  "But  my! 
He  's  sure  something  of  a  hustler,  that  boy.  I 
reckon  I  'd  better  hit  the  trail  or  he  '11  be  runnin' 
the  grille  before  I  git  to  it." 

"Do  you  really  think  he  will  do  for  you?" 
Helen  was  somewhat  dismayed. 

"Sure,"  was  the  reply.    "He '11  do  first  rate.    He 
means  well ;  don't  I  know  Chinks  ?" 
207 


THE  WELL  IN  THE  DESERT 

"You  have  to  take  'em  the  way  they  mean/'  she 
added,  philosophically.  "That  's  the  way  to  git 
along  with  'em." 

"You  seem  to  know  a  great  deal,"  murmured 
Helen,  wistfully.  She  felt  somehow  very  young 
and  inexperienced. 

"I  suppose  you  '11  see  Mr.  Card  when  you  get 
home,"  she  added,  tentatively.  "We— that  is— 
Father  was  afraid  he  ought  not  to  go  so  soon— on 
account  of  his  foot.  We  hope  it  will  be  all  right." 

Again  Kate  Hallard  crushed  down  the  little 
pang  that  would  come. 

"Mr.  Card,  he  took  hold  of  a  little  piece  o'  busi- 
ness for  me  ..."  she  spoke  very  casually,  "I 
reckon  it  's  bothering  him  a  lot.  I  expect  he  wants 
to  get  done  with  it  an'  git  away  from  here.  He  's 
been  mighty  kind  about  it." 

"Oh!  He  would  be  that."  Helen  could  not 
have  explained  why  her  heart  seemed  suddenly 
lighter.  She  was  conscious  of  a  quick,  friendly 
feeling  toward  this  woman  of  the  desert. 

"You  '11  come  again  to  see  me,  won't  you?"  she 
asked,  detaining  her  guest  when  the  latter  had 
swung  to  the  saddle. 

Kate  Hallard  hesitated.  "I  reckon  I  can't  git 
away  from  the  grille  much,"  she  said,  evasively. 
"I  never  go  nowhere  much." 

The  girl's  instinctive  wisdom  prompted  her  not 
208 


THE  WELL  IN  THE  DESERT 

to  press  the  point  then.  She  would  let  it  wait,  but 
her  wistfulness  sounded  in  her  voice  when  she 
spoke  again. 

"At  any  rate  we  're  friends,  are  we  not  ?"  queried 
she,  looking  up  into  the  black  eyes. 

They  returned  her  gaze  with  a  sudden  glisten, 
as  of  ice-bound  pools  when  Spring  has  touched 
them.  In  their  fundamental  honesty  the  two  na- 
tures stood  for  the  moment  upon  common  ground. 

"Friends."  Kate  Hallard  drew  a  long  breath 
as  she  took  up  her  bridle-rein.  "Child,"  she  said, 
"if  the  friendship  of  a  woman  like  me  is  ever  any 
use  to  you,  it 's  yours  while  there  's  a  drop  o'  blood 
in  my  heart,"  and  ere  Helen  could  make  answer 
she  was  well  down  the  avenue  toward  the  great 
gate. 


14  209 


CHAPTER  VII 

THE  days  immediately  following  his  return  to 
Sylvania  were  hard  ones  for  Card.  The  few 
cautious  inquiries  he  had  dared  to  make  in  the  in- 
vestigation of  his  own  affairs  had  resulted  in  the 
information  that  Jim  Texas  was  dead  and  that 
Hart  Bowling  had  left  Wyoming  and  gone  on 
into  Idaho.  Card's  messenger  had  been  unable  to 
get  to  him  on  account  of  the  deep  snow. 

He  read  the  letter  containing  this  news  lying 
coatless  upon  the  sand,  far  beyond  the  town.  The 
desert  was  his  one  solace  in  the  enforced  idleness 
of  waiting  for  word  from  Sawyer,  for  which  he 
had  written  to  San  Francisco.  The  vast  barren 
seemed  in  tune  with  his  own  mood. 

The  fierceness  of  his  ache  was  there;  the  yearn- 
ing of  his  solitude :  he  tried  to  picture  the  vast  sea 
of  sand  overgrown  with  verdure,  calling  up  cool 
visions  of  tree  and  pool,  and  gentle  growths  born 
of  the  small  spring  rain  on  the  green  grass.  The 
210 


THE  WELL  IN  THE  DESERT 

picture  came  before  him  like  a  memory  of  delicious 
holidays  in  lush  woods. 

It  was  but  a  vision  however.  The  scent  of  the 
desert  was  in  his  nostrils ;  the  impress  of  the  desert 
upon  his  brain.  He  opened  his  eyes  and  saw  again 
the  silent  reaches  of  the  waste — wide,  untamed,  un- 
tamable—and sat  up,  the  better  to  view  the  lean 
landscape. 

At  his  first  movement  a  jack- rabbit,  observing 
him  from  beneath  a  cholla,  gathered  its  swift  hind- 
legs  under  him  and  fled,  with  incredible  rapidity, 
before  the  shadow  of  fear.  Card  laughed,  but 
there  was  underneath  his  amusement  a  sense  of  the 
constant  deadly  strife  of  the  place.  If  he  had  no 
designs  upon  the  jack-rabbit,  plenty  of  other  crea- 
tures had.  The  lurking  snake  that  lay  in  wait  to 
take  him  subtly;  the  lank  coyote,  more  cunning 
than  he,  if  not  so  swift;  even  the  Gila  monster, 
slow  and  hideous;  the  savage,  sneaking  wild-cat, 
and  the  little  hydrophobia  skunk,  were  constantly 
on  the  alert  to  surprise  those  wide-open  eyes  and 
ears.  These  all  preyed  upon  him,  and  upon  one 
another,  caught  in  the  endless  struggle  of  the 
desert,  moved  upon  by  constant  need  to  sustain 
life,  and  to  hold  it  against  all  other  life. 

The  thought  brought  Card  to  a  sharpened  sense 
of  his  own  danger,  and  of  the  enemies  who,  if  they 
but  knew,  would  be  so  quick  to  hunt  and  harry  him. 
211 


THE  WELL  IN  THE  DESERT 

The  savagery  of  it  all  smote  him  with  a  keener 
desolation.  The  armed  vegetation,  grotesque  and 
menacing;  the  preying  creatures  of  the  plain;  the 
sand-laden  wind  that  was  constantly  tearing  down 
and  rebuilding  the  shifting  scene— were  not  all 
these  but  a  commentary  upon  the  mad,  devouring 
human  world  about  him? 

But  the  wind  that  laid  bare  the  earth's  nakedness 
clothed  and  healed  as  well,  purifying  the  air  and 
cleansing  the  waste.  The  give  as  well  as  the  take 
of  life  was  there.  Death  was  in  the  desert,  but  not 
decay.  Gard,  feeling  it  all  in  the  whirl  of  his  emo- 
tions, knew  that  the  grim  plain  which  mothered  the 
whole  fierce  brood  had  mothered  him  as  well,  giv- 
ing him  back  health  and  strength  from  her  own 
burning  heart,  and  he  loved  her,  as  her  children  must. 

His  thoughts  turned  inevitably  to  the  glade.  He 
had  a  whimsical  idea  that  his  trouble  would  all 
seem  easier  if  he  could  but  talk  it  over  with  Jinny. 
Deep  down,  however,  he  knew  better.  Not  even 
to  that  faithful  listener  could  he  have  voiced  the 
longing  of  his  whole  nature  for  Helen  Anderson. 
He  cherished  the  thought  of  her  in  his  secret  heart, 
going  over,  minute  by  minute,  the  hours  they  had 
spent  together.  Each  word  of  hers,  each  look,  ges- 
ture, had  its  special  power  of  endearment ! 

What  if  he  were  to  tell  her  the  whole  story, 
would  she  believe  him?  Would  she  consent  to  go 
212 


THE  WELL  IN  THE  DESERT 

away  with  him  into  a  new  life?  He  could  realize 
enough  from  the  mine  to  make  such  a  life  full  of 
rich  possibilities,  and  there  were  far  countries 
enough ! 

But  what  sort  of  a  man  would  it  be,  who  could 
ask  the  woman  he  loved  to  help  him  live  a  lie  ?  He 
asked  himself  the  question  and  awoke  to  a  realiza- 
tion of  his  further  folly.  What  right  had  he  even 
to  dream  of  her— to  imagine  that  she  could  ever 
care  for  him  at  all  ?  Even  though  he  should  stand 
before  her  without  a  shadow  in  his  past  he  would 
be  a  brave  man  who  dared  raise  his  eyes  to  her. 
How  could  he,  of  all  men? 

Then  he  remembered  Westcott.  He  had  seen 
with  his  own  eyes  that  he  dared.  Could  that  man 
ever  hope  to  win  her  ? 

The  torture  of  this  thought  drove  him  out  over 
the  desert  at  noon,  when  the  sky  closed  brassy-yel- 
low above  him,  and  the  heat-reddened  air  over  the 
sand  seemed  the  hue  of  his  own  thoughts.  He 
fought  his  way  through  it  to  peace,  far  out  in  the 
open,  when  the  afternoon  wind  was  driving  the 
heat  of  the  plain  skyward,  and  seaward  over  the 
mountains,  and  he  came  back  against  that  cleansing 
breath,  his  wonted  strong  self,  to  a  conference 
with  Kate  Hallard.  She  was  bitter  against  West- 
cott that  day,  breathing  out  wrath,  and  the  desire 
for  vengeance. 

213 


THE  WELL  IN  THE  DESERT 

"If  you  've  ever  noticed  it,"  Card  said,  "there  's 
a  kind  of  reasonableness  in  the  way  things  happen, 
even  when  they  look  black.  They  happen  out  of 
each  other;  and  there  's  Something  managing 
them,  no  matter  how  it  looks,  sometimes.  I  've 
found  that  out." 

"I  'd  like  to  help  in  the  managin'  "  Mrs.  Hallard 
said,  grimly. 

"You  could  n't."  Gard  shook  his  head  thought- 
fully. 

"You  could  n't  see  the  whole  scheme,"  he  con- 
tinued. "And  we  don't  need  to  want  to.  Who- 
ever 's  doing  it  is  making  up  a  whole  piece  out  of 
'em.  That 's  this  world  we  're  in.  It 's  our  world. 
We  belong  in  it ;  and  there  ain't  anything  in  it  for 
us  to  be  afraid  of  but  just  ourselves." 

He  pondered  his  own  saying  for  a  moment,  re- 
peating it  as  if  to  reassure  himself. 

"That  's  sure  right."  He  took  up  the  thread 
again. 

"It  makes  me  think  of  a  game  I  played  once  at  a 
party  I  went  to,  when  I  was  a  kid,  back  in  the 
states.  They  had  a  big,  round  paper  apple  fixed 
up,  with  something  in  it  for  each  of  us;  and  we 
each  had  a  string  given  us  to  follow  up  till  we 
came  to  the  end  and  each  found  what  belonged  to 
him.  Ever  see  anything  like  that?" 

Mrs.  Hallard  nodded. 

214 


THE  WELL  IN  THE  DESERT 

"They  worked  a  game  o'  that  sort  once  at  some 
Christmas  doin's  where  I  was  raised.  Did  you 
ever  think  o'  me  goin'  to  Sunday- School  ?"  she 
asked,  with  a  bitter  little  laugh. 

"Sure  I  did."  Card  went  on  with  his  simile. 
"A  man  's  got  to  hold  on  to  his  own  string,"  he 
said.  "And  follow  it  up  till  he  gets  to  the  core  of 
the  apple.  He  '11  find  his  own  share  there.  This 
Westcott,  he  's  trying  to  haul  on  other  folkses' 
lines,  as  well  's  his  own,  and  that  gets  things  in  a 
mix-up.  We  've  got  to  try  and  make  him  play  the 
thing  right;  but  it  ain't  our  party,  and  therefore 
it  ain't  our  job  to  throw  him  out  of  the  game  alto- 
gether." 

Mrs.  Hallard's  brows  were  knit  in  the  effort  to 
follow.  She  had  not  herself  learned,  as  yet,  to 
lean  upon  the  logic  of  events,  and  vengeance  was  a 
part  of  her  own  theory  of  life.  Then,  because  she 
seemed  to  find  no  thoroughfare  through  the  sub- 
ject, she  turned  abruptly  away  from  it. 

"I  met  up  with  your  Miss  Helen  Anderson  yes- 
terday," she  said,  suddenly. 

The  light  in  Card's  face  was  revealing,  but  he 
merely  stood,  expectant,  until  she  had  told  him  the 
whole  of  the  encounter  at  Old  Joe  Papago's,  even 
to  Helen's  proffer  of  friendship. 

"Bless  her!"  the  man  murmured,  with  face  il- 
lumined. "Ain't  she  a  brick,  though?" 

215 


THE  WELL  IN  THE  DESERT 

"She  's  better  'n  a  brick,"  said  Kate  Hallard, 
promptly.  "She  's  a  real  woman,  with  a  lovin'  hon- 
est heart.  Look  here,  Mr.  Gabriel  Gard !  Be  you 
goin'  to  stand  round  with  your  quirt  in  your  hand, 
while  that  there  Westcott  devil  rides  off  the  range 
with  her?" 

Card's  face  was  pale,  and  the  sweat  stood  upon 
his  forehead. 

"Don't!"  cried  he,  sharply.  "You  don't  know 
what  you  're  talking  about !  A  man  's  got  to  fol- 
low his  own  line,  I  tell  you,  and  get  it  clear  before 
him,  before  he  asks  any  woman  to  take  hold  of  it 
with  him !" 

He  turned  abruptly  and  left  her.  Yes :  that  was 
what  he  must  do.  Whatever  was  to  be  met,  he 
must  meet  it,  and  clear  the  way,  before  he  took  one 
step  nearer  Helen. 

"But  it 's  hard  to  wait,"  he  muttered,  pacing  the 
desert  with  clenched  hands;  "hard  as  wickedness!" 

The  stage  that  night  brought  him  a  letter  from 
San  Francisco.  Sawyer,  it  told  him,  had  left  the 
city.  The  writer  believed  that  he  had  gone  to  Ari- 
zona for  the  winter.  He  was  thought  to  be  some- 
where on  a  ranch  in  the  neighborhood  of  the  Na- 
vajo  reservation.  Gard  read  that  with  a  little  feel- 
ing of  dismay.  He  did  not  care  to  go  up  there. 
He  had  grown  confident  that  he  was  not  likely  to 
be  recognized;  but  still,  there  was  danger,  and  he 
216 


THE  WELL  IN  THE  DESERT 

wanted  to  keep  clear  of  complications  until  such 
time  as  he  was  ready  to  act  for  himself.  If  any- 
thing should  happen  to  him  he  had  no  one  to  take 
up  his  work  on  the  outside.  He  must  find  someone 
whom  he  could  trust. 

Suddenly  he  bethought  himself  of  Sandy  Larch. 
They  were  friends.  He  could  trust  Sandy,  and  he 
would. 

He  spent  a  long  time  that  evening,  writing  a  let- 
ter of  instructions  for  Sandy  Larch  to  read,  in  the 
event  of  any  failure  in  his  own  plans.  This  he  put 
carefully  inside  a  worn  memorandum  book,  and 
did  the  whole  up  in  a  neat  packet  which  he  meant 
to  leave  with  the  foreman,  together  with  a  heavy 
money-belt  which  he  was  then  himself  wearing.  If 
necessity  arose  he  would  have  to  trust  much  to  the 
foreman's  shrewd  judgment  in  action,  but  at  least 
he  would  fix  things  so  that  Sandy  should  not  be 
acting  in  the  dark. 

He  got  an  early  start  in  the  morning,  and  rode 
out  to  the  Palo  Verde.  Morgan  Anderson  was 
away.  He  had  left  at  daylight,  to  go  down  into 
Mexico,  Sandy  Larch  explained,  on  some  mining 
business.  Incidentally,  he  was  going  to  see  about 
some  choice  lemon  trees  that  he  had  set  his  heart 
upon,  and  before  their  arrival  ground  must  be  bro- 
ken to  receive  them. 

"So  it  's  up  to  us  to  git  them  workin'  cows  gen- 
217 


THE  WELL  IN  THE  DESERT 

tied  an'  onto  their  job,"  the  foreman  told  Card; 
"We  're  goin'  to  bust  'em  out  right  now." 

"Say,"  he  added,  "That  lawyer-sharp  's  here. 
Came  down  last  night,  to  see  the  patron;  he  's 
goin'  on  to  Sylvania,  I  guess.  He  said  somethin' 
about  it,  awhile  ago," 

"I  came  out  to  see  you  on  a  little  business  mat- 
ter, Sandy,"  Card  had  begun,  when  one  of  the 
cow-punchers  demanded  the  foreman's  attention. 
Ere  he  could  turn  back  to  Gard,  Westcott  came 
down  from  the  casa  and  mounted  his  horse  which 
was  standing  at  the  rail. 

He  greeted  Gard  curtly.  "Going  to  stay  and  see 
the  fun?"  He  queried,  with  a  jaunty  air  of  being 
entirely  at  home.  "I  think  I  will,  too.  We  '11  be 
glad  to  have  you." 

The  future  working-stock  had  been  removed  to 
an  outlying  corral,  to  make  room  for  the  horses  the 
men  had  been  working  out.  The  Palo  Verde  was 
short  of  men  that  season,  and  Sandy  was  obliged 
to  plan  his  work  carefully.  The  punchers  who 
were  to  break  in  the  cattle  were  grouped  now,  and 
ready  for  the  fray. 

"Come  on,"  the  foreman  called  to  Gard,  who 
had  tossed  his  saddlebags  down  in  front  of  Sandy's 
shack,  and  the  outfit  went  tearing  across  the  sand 
to  the  outer  corrals. 

A  wagon  and  a  plow  had  been  hauled  out  to  the 
218 


THE  WELL  IN  THE  DESERT 

scene  of  action  the  night  before.  The  principles 
of  gentling  the  steers  were  brief  and  fundamental. 
Two  punchers  threw  their  ropes  over  the  horns  of 
one  big  brute  and  dragged  him  out  upon  the  desert, 
while  two  others  brought  up  his  yoke- fellow.  Once 
yoked  and  hitched,  with  a  riata  from  the  horns  of 
each  to  the  saddle-horn  of  a  good  man  on  a  clever 
pony,  to  tow  them  along,  the  creatures  could  move 
forward,  or  die  in  their  tracks.  When,  as  was 
usual,  they  decided  to  do  the  former,  they  were 
considered  gentled.'  Their  future,  thereafter,  was 
in  the  keeping  of  the  Mexican  who  might  have 
them  in  hand  to  plow  with. 

"Hullo,  you  heap  heathen !"  Sandy  Larch  called 
out  to  the  Chinese  cook  in  the  big  wagon  as  the 
outfit  came  thundering  up.  "How  'd  you  git  out 
here?"  , 

Wing  Chang  grinned,  as  was  his  habit  when- 
ever the  foreman  addressed  him. 

"Heap  tallee  fun,"  he  explained.  "Me  come 
look  see." 

Sandy  Larch  and  Manuel  had  already  brought 
out  a  steer.  Broome  threw  his  rope  next,  cursing 
roundly  at  the  greenhorn  who  was  helping  him, 
and  whose  first  wild  throw  covered  the  horns  of 
the  wrong  animal.  Since  it  would  be  quicker  work 
for  him  to  change  than  for  the  other,  Broome  re- 
leased his  "cow,"  the  big  steer  that  had  run  him 
219 


THE  WELL  IN  THE  DESERT 

from  the  corral  the  week  before,  and  took  hold 
with  the  greenhorn. 

The  brutes  were  yoked  and  hitched  to  the 
wagon,  and  the  fun  began  with  Chang's  precipitate  • 
and  unpremeditated  departure  from  the  vehicle. 
He  rolled  over  and  got  to  his  feet  as  the  cowboys 
started  out  over  the  sand,  pell  mell,  "pully  haul,"  in 
a  medley  of  shrieks  and  oaths  and  thunderous  bel- 
lowings.  The  spectators  of  the  proceedings  kept 
along  upon  the  flanks  of  the  procession,  shouting 
encouragement  or  derision  to  the  sweating  cow- 
boys as  they  galloped,  and  occasionally  lending  a 
hand  so  far  as  to  lean  over  and  apply  the  spur  to  one 
or  the  other  resisting  "bos."  In  two  minutes'  time 
the  wildly  gyrating  mass  was  well  out  on  the  plain. 

Then  from  the  corral  came  the  sound  of  a  sud- 
den crash.  A  huge  red  and  white  bulk  hurled  itself 
over  the  bars,  and  the  steer  that  Broome  had  re- 
leased came  charging  out,  mad  with  rage  and  fear. 

For  an  instant  he  stood  dazed  by  the  success  of 
his  own  exploit.  None  of  the  other  cattle  had  fol- 
lowed. He  alone  had  possessed  the  wit  and  prow- 
ess to  essay  the  barrier,  one  bar  of  which  the 
greenhorn  had  failed  to  secure. 

The  great  brute's  hesitation  was  brief.     For  an 

instant  he  pawed  the  sand,  bellowing  challenge  to 

the  world ;  then,  head  down  and  tail  up,  he  started 

like  a  streak  of  lightning  for  the  only  man  on  foot. 

220 


THE  WELL  IN  THE  DESERT 

Wing  Chang  had  already  realized  his  danger, 
and  was  flying  for  his  life,  his  pigtail  streaming  be- 
hind him,  his  yellow  face  distorted  by  fright.  The 
outfit  wheeled  and  took  notice. 

"Wow!  Wow!  Fli*  gun.  Alice  samee  fli' gun !" 

The  high-pitched  shrieks  of  the  terrified  China- 
men rose  above  the  noise  of  hoofs,  the  shouts  of 
men,  the  bellowing  of  cattle.  On  he  sped,  the 
mighty  bulk  of  his  pursuer  flashing  along  in  what 
looked  like  a  continuous  streak  of  red,  behind 
him. 

"Hell !"  One  of  the  punchers  ejaculated.  "It 's 
us  to  be  hunting  a  new  cook !" 

The  next  instant  his  bronco's  heels  were  twink- 
ling as  he  raced  to  the  rescue. 

Card  had  already  started.  He  had  no  rope,  but 
he  was  nearest  the  scene,  and  he  saw,  as  did  the 
others,  that  no  rope  could  be  flung  in  time.  He 
was  sending  his  pony  along  at  full  speed,  minded 
to  get  in  and  head  "bos"  off.  It  was  Wing  Chang's 
only  hope. 

The  great  steer  was  already  perilously  near, 
when  the  Chinaman  stumbled,  falling  his  full 
length  on  the  sand.  His  yells  still  pierced  the  air 
in  high  falsetto,  and  his  feet  continued  the  motions 
of  running,  flinging  up  and  down  with  the  regular- 
ity of  pistons  as  his  long  yellow  fingers  clutched 
the  desert. 

221 


THE  WELL  IN  THE  DESERT 

Down  came  the  foe !  An  instant,  and  the  thing 
would  be  done ;  but  in  between  him  and  his  yelling 
victim  flashed  a  man  and  a  horse,  and  Card,  reach- 
ing down,  caught  the  Chinaman  by  the  belt. 

A  quick,  skilful  jerk  brought  him  up  as  the  pony 
dashed  on,  and  in  the  same  instant  the  cowboy's 
rope  caught  the  steer  by  one  upflung  hind  hoof. 
The  great  brute  turned  a  clean  somersault  in  the 
air,  and  landed  with  a  crash  upon  his  back. 

Card,  keeping  hold  of  the  Chinaman,  brought 
his  horse  to  a  standstill  near  a  great  branching 
suhuaro,  and  set  the  still  vociferating  Wing  Chang 
upon  his  feet.  The  cowboys  already  had  two 
ropes  over  the  recalcitrant  steer,  and  were  leading 
him  back  to  the  corral,  minus  one  long,  murderous 
horn,  and  greatly  chastened  in  spirit. 

It  was  high  noon  before  the  three  pairs  of  cattle 
were  gentled  sufficiently  to  permit  of  their  being 
yoked  without  absolute  danger  to  life.  By  that 
time  each  "yoke"  had  pulled  the  wagon  a  quarter 
of  a  mile,  with  more  or  less  sobriety,  and  had 
plowed  a  torturous  furrow  on  the  desert. 

"Which  I  would  rise  in  my  place,"  Sandy  Larch 
said,  seriously,  "an'  point  with  pride  at  them  yoke 
o'  cows  as  a  good  morning's  work." 

He  and  Card  had  ridden  back  together,  and 
were  in  the  foreman's  shack.  Westcott  had  gone 
on  his  way  to  Sylvania. 

222 


THE  WELL  IN  THE  DESERT 

"I  want  you  to  do  something  for  me,  Sandy," 
Card  said.  "I  Ve  got  to  go  up  north,  and  I  want 
to  leave— 

His  hand  sought  an  inner  pocket  as  he  spoke, 
and  he  drew  it  out  with  a  look  of  dismay.  Then  he 
began  searching  his  other  pockets. 

"Lost  something?"  the  foreman  said,  watching 
him. 

"I— should— say— I— had !" 

The  full  significance  of  his  loss  was  telegraph- 
ing itself  to  the  inner  strongholds  of  Card's  con- 
sciousness. 

"Sandy !"  He  sprang  to  his  feet.  "I  Ve  got  to 
find  it— in  a  hurry,  too !" 

He  was  outside,  now,  looking  for  his  horse, 
which  had  been  turned  in  to  feed  with  the  others. 

"We  '11  rustle  a  couple  more,"  Sandy  said. 

"Lord !"  he  thought,  "Something  's  eatin'  him. 
I  never  thought  I  'd  see  him  in  a  flurry." 

They  were  ready  in  a  moment,  and  riding  back 
to  the  ground  they  had  gone  over  in  the  fore- 
noon. 

"You  kin  bet  your  hat  you  let  it  go  overboard 
when  you  reached  fer  that  blasted  Chink,"  Sandy 
said,  and  they  made  for  the  spot  where  Card  had 
rescued  Wing  Chang. 

But  no  brown  packet  rewarded  their  scrutiny  of 
the  ground.  They  paced  the  desert  on  to  where 
223 


THE  WELL  IN  THE  DESERT 

Gard  had  set  the  Chinaman  on  his  feet,  and  found 
nothing  but  the  hole  of  a  Gila  monster.  Sandy 
kicked  it  open  with  his  heel,  and  the  occupant  came 
up,  hissing  hideously,  but  that  was  all. 

They  circled  the  whole  ground  of  the  morning's 
operations,  but  without  result,  and  at  last  they  re- 
turned to  the  shack.  Card's  face  was  drawn  in 
haggard  lines,  but  he  had  recovered  his  poise. 

"I  reckon  that  thing  's  got  tromped  down  into 
the  ground,"  Sandy  said,  by  way  of  consolation.  "I 
did  n't  see  none  of  the  boys  pick  up  nothin'. 
They  'd  a'  hollered  if  they  had,  an'  we  was  all  to- 
gether." 

"All  except  Westcott."  Gard  spoke  very  quietly, 
but  Sandy  shouted. 

"Gosh !  That 's  so,"  He  cried,  "I  fergot  him  fer 
a  minute.  I  swan !  Would  it  be  mighty  bad  if  he 
was  the  one  to  find  it?" 

"A  little  worse,  in  some  ways,  than  anybody 
else  living." 

"Lord!  Lord!  But  I  don't  see  how  he  could, 
Gard :  He  rode  off  to  Sylvania.  It 's  happened  the 
way  I  said.  They  was  a  mighty  lot  o'  hoofs  ram- 
paging round  there,  an'  your  goods,  whatever 
't  was,  got  tromped  in;  but  you  can  bet  Sandy 
Larch  '11  keep  his  peepers  open  fer  't  if  it  's  on  top 
the  'arth." 

"Anyway,"— Gard  roused  himself— "there  's  all 
224 


THE  WELL  IN  THE  DESERT 

the  more  reason  why  I  should  do  what  I  Ve  got  to 
do  while  I  can." 

He  was  undressing  as  he  spoke,  and  presently 
produced  the  belt. 

"I  want  you  to  put  this  away  somewhere, 
Sandy,"  he  said.  "If  I  send  you  word  to  do  some 
things  for  me  it  may  come  in  handy.  And  Sandy, 
if  anything  happens  to  me  you  go  and  see  Mrs. 
Hallard,  and  do  what  you  can  to  help  her.  She  '11 
need  help." 

Not  a  flicker  moved  the  serenity  of  the  fore- 
man's steady  eyes.  His  was  not  the  friendship  that 
questions. 

"I  '11  do  anything  you  send  word  to  do,  Card," 
said  he,  "but  I  don't  believe  I  '11  need  all  that 
money.  You  got  plenty  to  use  ?" 

"Sure—"  with  a  sigh.  "Money  ain't  the  thing  I 
need  most,  Sandy." 

"Bless  yourself  for  that,"  was  the  quick  reply. 
"When  it  comes  to  a  pinch  the  filthy  's  one  of  the 
things  inconvenient  to  miss." 

He  put  the  belt  away  in  his  own  secret  hiding- 
place  and  busied  himself  with  getting  up  his 
friend's  horse.  Card  meant  to  ride  to  Bonesta,  and 
there  board  the  train.  If,  as  he  suspected,  West- 
cott  had  found  that  tell-tale  packet,  he  must  him- 
self move  quickly,  and  settle  Mrs.  Hallard's  matter 
before  he  could  be  apprehended  as  a  fugitive  from 
16  225 


THE  WELL  IN  THE  DESERT 

justice.  Not  that  Gard  meant  to  be  apprehended. 
But  he  did  not  intend  that  any  thought  of  risk  to 
his  personal  safety  should  interfere  with  the  dis- 
charge of  his  duty  as  he  saw  it. 

"So  long,  Sandy,"  he  said,  out  beyond  the  cor- 
rals. 

"Adfosf 

i 

Sandy  gripped  his  hand  heartily,  and  the  two 
men  parted;  but  Gard  made  a  wide  detour,  ere  he 
took  the  desert  road,  to  glimpse  from  afar  the  low- 
walled  casa,  white  in  the  glaring  December  sun- 
light. 

He  had  left  the  Palo  Verde  well  behind,  and 
was  in  a  little  sandy  valley,  the  dry  bed  of  some 
ancient  lake,  when  he  dismounted  to  tighten  his 
saddle  cincha.  Pausing  an  instant,  before  re- 
mounting, he  cast  a  weary  glance  skyward  and 
gave  a  cry  of  surprise. 

High  in  the  ether  an  enchanted  landscape,  huge, 
distorted,  hung  before  his  vision.  Rocks  and  trees, 
vast  cacti  and  shimmering  plain  were  there,  and 
moving  among  them  were  a  horse  and  rider,  fol- 
lowed by  a  dog. 

There  was  no  mistaking  the  figures.  Helen, 
-upon  Dickens,  was  riding  on  the  plain,  Patsy  keep- 
ing' her  company.  The  blessed  mirage  showed 
them  plainly  and  Gard  gazed,  dizzy  with  emotion. 

It  was  but  a  fleeting  vision.  Some  movement  of 
226 


THE  WELL  IN  THE  DESERT 

the  upper  air-currents  disturbed  it  and  even  as  he 
looked  it  broke  into  fragments,  dissolved  and  was 
gone,  ere  Card's  swelling  heart  had  ceased  its  wild 
pounding. 

"She  is  out  there  in  the  desert,"  he  murmured,  a 
sobbing  catch  in  his  throat,  "Oh,  God  bless  her !  I 
love  her !  I  love  her !" 

He  mounted  his  horse  again  and  rode  on,  his 
heart  light  as  a  feather,  and  on  his  lips  the  words 
of  a  half -forgotten  old  song. 


227 


CHAPTER  VIII 

GARD  had  not  been  wrong  in  his  reading  of  the 
mirage.  It  was  Helen  whose  presentment 
that  marvel  of  the  desert  had  set  like  a  bow  of 
promise  in  the  sky.  A  mood  of  restlessness  had 
sent  the  girl  forth  seeking  refuge  in  the  sunlit  can- 
dor of  the  plain  from  the  fear  that  was  upon  her, 
of  hidden  chambers  in  her  own  soul,  which  she 
shrank  from  entering. 

She  was  very  quiet.  From  time  to  time  Dickens, 
the  pony,  turned  to  nip  playfully  first  one  then  the 
other  of  her  hooded  stirrups,  inviting  her  to  a 
frolic.  Once,  when  a  parcel  of  gaunt  Indian  dogs 
went  vociferating  along  a  stretch  of  mesa,  within 
sight  and  hearing,  he  broke  into  a  sympathetic 
scamper,  Patsy  joining  him  ecstatically.  The  rise 
from  a  walk  to  a  run  was  sudden  and  unexpected, 
but  the  girl  adapted  herself  to  it  indifferently,  with 
the  instinctive  adjustment  of  perfect  horseman- 
ship. 

The  pony  ran  gallantly  for  a  little  distance,  wait- 
228 


THE  WELL  IN  THE  DESERT 

ing  all  the  while,  expectantly,  for  the  thrill  of  an- 
swering pleasure  in  motion  that  failed  to  come 
along  the  rein.  One  inquiring  eye  rolled  back  at 
his  mistress,  one  fine,  pointed  ear  slanted  to  catch 
her  least  word  of  command,  but  Helen  was  far 
away  and  he  watched  and  listened  in  vain  for  some 
hint  that  she  realized  his  coaxing.  Dickens  could 
not  understand  it.  He  stretched  his  graceful  neck 
as  he  ran,  still  seeking  that  answering  touch  of  the 
bit.  Helen's  ready  hand  gave  lightly  to  his  thrust, 
her  muscles  responding  with  trained  certainty  to 
his  every  movement,  but  Dickens  wanted  her  con- 
scious attention.  When  that  was  not  forthcoming 
his  pace  slackened  under  the  retarding  weight  of 
her  laden  spirit.  He  drooped  his  head  and  went 
half-heartedly,  following  Patsy,  whose  vagabond 
whim  had  led  him  from  the  road. 

A  feeling  of  oppression  was  on  the  girl.  Not 
even  the  cleansing  touch  of  the  north-west  wind, 
blowing  from  the  far  mountains,  seemed  potent  to 
ease  it.  Somehow,  the  desert  solitude  had  grown 
all  at  once  more  complex  than  ever  the  busy,  active 
city  life  had  been.  The  well-loved  plain  lay  all 
about  her  as  of  old,  fraught  with  all  its  remem- 
bered delight,  yet  imminent  with  a  new  mystery. 
Some  message,  luring  yet  baffling,  quivered 
through  it.  The  far  blue  hills,  the  golden-roseate 
sky,  the  shimmering,  wind-stirred  air,  breathed  of 
229 


THE  WELL  IN  THE  DESERT 

life;  but  the  grim  waste,  yellow,  seared,  ancient, 
the  scant,  spectral  trees,  the  uncouth  cacti,  warned, 
rather,  to  thoughts  of  death;  and  something  deep 
within  her  was  subtly  aware  of  another  summons 
still,  which  her  soul  half  shrank  from  heeding,  half 
yearned  to  understand. 

She  drew  rein  presently,  as  she  realized  that 
they  were  off  the  trail.  At  the  base  of  a  mass  of 
rock  Patsy  was  scratching  frantically  at  a  hole  in* 
the  earth  where  a  burrowing  owl  had  just  disap- 
peared. A  carrion  crow,  disturbed  in  its  tentative 
investigation  of  something  that  lay  on  the  ground, 
rose  complainingly  and  flapped  itself  darkly  away. 

Looking  about  her  Helen  came  to  slow  realiza- 
tion of  the  spot.  There  were  the  rocks  round 
which  she  had  come  that  marvelous  morning. 
Here  Card  had  lain,  Patsy  just  where  she  and 
Dickens  stood.  Yonder  slender  thread  of  pearly 
vertebra  that  the  raven  had  been  turning  over  was 
all  that  was  left  of  the  menace  that  had  lifted  it- 
self just  there  that  day. 

Second  by  second  she  went  over  the  scene,  seeing 
again  the  spell-bound  dog,  the  flat-headed,  veno- 
mous snake,  the  prostrate  man,  with  his  serene 
gaze,  his  dark  eyes  telegraphing  reassurance  to  her 
from  the  heart  of  his  own  deadly  peril. 

"Oh/'  she  shuddered,  feeling  again  the  sense  of 
horror  and  faintness  that  had  been  hers  on  that 
230 


THE  WELL  IN  THE  DESERT 

morning,  "What  if  no  one  had  come!  What  if  I 
could  not  have  saved  him !" 

She  buried  her  face  in  her  hands,  shutting  out 
the  scene,  but  she  could  not  shut  out  the  memory 
of  those  haunting  eyes.  She  saw  them  still,  but 
now  they  were  troubled,  and  eloquent  of  struggle, 
as  they  had  seemed  while  he  was  saying  good-by, 
that  morning  at  the  Palo  Verde.  The  girl  had 
wondered,  more  than  once,  over  that  look,  so 
quickly  withdrawn.  Now  she  suddenly  under- 
stood it  through  the  quick  response  which,  at  the 
memory,  leaped  from  her  own  heart;  and  she 
knew,  deep  down  in  those  recesses  which  she  had 
shrunk  from  looking  upon,  that  she  had  under- 
stood all  the  time. 

The  mantling  crimson  swept  her  face  as  she  sat 
there,  startled,  still  keeping  her  hands  up,  as 
though  to  hide  it  from  her  own  thoughts.  She 
went  over  in  her  mind  all  those  days  at  the  rancho, 
measuring  every  look,  every  gesture,  weighing 
every  word  of  Card's  that  seemed  to  afford  com- 
fort to  her  shamed  heart. 

"He  went  away  without  a  word,"  she  finally 
whispered,  raising  her  head.  "But  I  know  I  can 
trust  him.  There  was  some  good  reason  why  he 
had  to  go  away;  but  he  will  come  back!  Oh,  he 
will  come  back  to  me !" 

The  glory  of  the  skies  became  all  at  once  part  of 
231 


THE  WELL  IN  THE  DESERT 

the  brightness  that  filled  her  spirit.  The  girl's  heart 
was  suddenly  lifted  on  mysterious  wings  into  the 
wider  spaces  of  womanhood.  She  had  heard  the 
message,  and  was  aware. 

Yet  there  was  visible  as  she  turned  away,  but  a 
slender  figure  in  khaki,  browned  as  to  cheek  and 
brow,  touched  to  warmth  by  the  desert  wind,  guid- 
ing a  dun  pony  among  the  rocks  and  cacti  back  to 
the  trail. 

The  dusty  thread  of  its  way  picked  up  once 
more,  Helen  suddenly  awoke  to  outward  things ;  to 
the  challenge  of  the  north-west  wind,  and  the 
eager  outstretch  of  the  horse  she  rode.  The  least 
imperceptible  lift  of  her  bridle  arm  conveyed  to 
Dickens  the  welcome  news  that  his  .mistress  an- 
swered him.  Something  of  her  soul's  exultation 
thrilled  through  the  pony  and  set  his  twinkling  feet 
to  dancing,  and  on  the  instant  they  were  racing 
pell-mell  across  the  desert,  Patsy,  wild  with  joy, 
careering  beside  them. 

Helen  laughed  aloud  for  sheer  delight  as  they 
sped  forward.  She  stood  in  her  stirrups  and  sent 
Dickens  ahead,  holding  him  steady  but  making  no 
effort  to  check  the  wild  pace,  the  wind  bearing  all 
care  from  her  brain,  all  doubt  from  her  heart,  as 
they  swept  on  toward  the  Palo  Verde. 

"Well!"  Sandy  Larch  said,  coming  to  take  the 
pony's  rein  as  Helen  swung  down  beside  the  cor- 
232 


THE  WELL  IN  THE  DESERT 

rals,  "You  sure  was  goin'  some.  I  kind  o'  thought 
for  a  minute  Dickens  was  runnin'  with  you." 

"No,"  laughed  Helen,  still  breathless  and  exult- 
ant with  the  excitement  of  the  race,  "I  was  run- 
ning with  Dickens." 

Sandy  loosened  the  cincha  and  eased  the  saddle. 

"We  '11  leave  it  that  a'way  till  his  back  cools 
out,"  said  he,  "You  Ve  sure  warmed  him  up." 

He  turned  an  approving  glance  upon  the  girl  as 
she  stood  rubbing  Dickens'  dun-colored  nose. 

"You  look  good  Miss  Helen,"  he  said.  "I  'd  be- 
gun to  be  afraid  they  'd  educated  all  the  life  an' 
brightness  out'n  you  back  there  to  your  eastern  col- 
lege. I  guess,  though,  you  '11  get  over  it  in  time." 

"Get  over  the  education,  Sandy  ?"  she  suggested, 
mischievously;  she  and  Sandy  had  been  pals  since 
her  babyhood. 

"I  'd  be  sorry  if  I  should,"  she  added.  "Think 
what  a  loss  it  would  be." 

"Yes,"  he  assented,  gravely,  "It  sure  would. 
They  's  the  prices  of  a  right  smart  o'  good  polo  po- 
nies gone  into  polishin'  you  off  like  you  be." 

"I  was  comin'  to  think,"  'he  went  on,  his  face 
awakening  genially,  "that  you  was  most  likely 
pinin'  for  them  shiny  pursuits  more  'n  you  al- 
lowed for  when  you  first  come  back." 

"Not  a  bit  of  it,  Sandy !"  Helen's  tone  was  em- 
phatic, "I  enjoyed  every  moment  at  college;  but  I 

233 


THE  WELL  IN  THE  DESERT 

came  back  to  the  desert  knowing  perfectly  well 
that  this  is  the  best  place  in  the  world." 

Her  hearty  tone  satisfied  even  his  jealous  ears. 
The  girl  had  stooped  to  caress  Patsy,  who  lay  pant- 
ing on  the  sand,  his  tongue  fluttering  like  a  little 
red  signal-flag.  Her  eyes  were  bright  and  happy, 
her  cheeks  touched  to  a  brilliant  glow  by  her  run 
with  Dickens.  Sandy  nodded  again. 

"Yes,"  he  said,  "I  guess  it  ain't  hurt  you  none." 

"What?"  Helen  had  forgotten  what  they  had 
been  talking  about.  She  looked  up  absently,  still 
rubbing  Patsy's  sides. 

"Education,"  the  foreman  said,  "I  was  afraid 
mebby  it  had." 

"Nonsense,  Sandy,  Education  does  n't  hurt 
people." 

"N-o-"  Sandy's  acquiescence  was  deliberative. 
"Not  people  o'  intellectooals,  that  has  saves  natur- 
ally," he  said,  "but  the  critter  that  gets  it  fed  to  him 
regular  wants  to  be  kind  o'  wide  between  the  ears 
allee  samee." 

"Did  n't  you  enjoy  going  to  school  when  you 
were  a  boy,  Sandy?"  Helen  asked;  she  loved  to 
draw  the  cow-puncher  out. 

"Me?"  he  questioned,  unsuspectingly,  "Sure: 
I  'd  a  liked  it  first  rate  if  I  'd  ever  a'  went. 

"I  never  did  go  none  till  I  was  growed,"  he  went 

234 


THE  WELL  IN  THE  DESERT 

on.  "Then  we  started  a  night-school,  back  to 
Michigan,  where  I  was  raised.  They  was  a  bunch 
of  us  set  out  to  see  it  through,  all  young  fellers  that 
worked  the  farms  day-times.  We  was  plum  in 
love  with  the  idee  o'  that  night-school." 

"It  must  have  been  interesting,"  Helen  sug- 
gested, "You  would  all  have  a  strong  purpose  at 
that  age." 

"Sure,"  Sandy  grew  reminiscent.  "We  went 
the  first  night,"  he  said,  "An'  we  'd  forgot  to  bring 
any  candles.  We  went  the  next  night  an'  the 
teacher  'd  forgot  to  come." 

He  gazed  across  the  plain,  lost  in  memory  of 
those  far,  fond  days.  "Then  we  went  the  third 
night,"  he  resumed,  dreamily,  "an'  reviewed  what 
we  'd  learned  the  two  previous  evenin's,  and'  I  cal- 
'late  that  finished  my  schoolin'." 

Helen  laughed,  tweaking  Patsy's  ears,  but  the 
foreman  regarded  her  with  mild  inquiry,  unheed- 
ing her  mirth. 

"Now  with  you  it  's  different  Miss  Helen,"  he 
continued,  still  considering  his  views  on  education. 
"Gettin'  learnin'  's  all  right  for  you.  First  place 
you  're  smart." 

"Thank  you,"  Helen  bowed  over  Patsy. 

"You  're  sure  welcome,"  gravely. 

"Furthermore,"  Sandy  proceeded  categorically, 


THE  WELL  IN  THE  DESERT 

"You  bein'  a  girl,  you  don't  have  to  get  your  livin'. 
A  man  now,  a  practical  man  that 's  gotter  rustle  his 
grub,  don't  wanter  pack  no  extry  outfit." 

He  turned  toward  Dickens,  who  all  this  time  had 
been  standing  half  asleep,  his  bridle  reins  on  the 
ground. 

"Dick,  he  's  gettin'  on,  ain't  he,"  the  foreman 
said,  critically,  "but  he  stands  up  to  it  mighty  well, 
yet. 

"Now  there  's  a  case  where  education  's  o' 
value,"  added  Sandy  in  a  tone  of  pride,  "I  educated 
that  there  horse  myself,  purpose  for  you,  little  gal, 
an'  they  ain't  no  question  but  Dick  's  lived  up  to  his 
light.  I  '11  have  Manuel  give  'im  a  rub-down." 

"Dickens  is  a  treasure,"  declared  Helen,  em- 
phatically. "He  's  as  good  as  ever;  are  n't  you, 
Dickens?" 

She  patted  the  pony's  glossy  neck.  "Have  you 
found  another  Manuel  already,  Sandy,"  she  quer- 
ied, "I  thought  Manuel  Gordo  had  been  discharged. 
Father  said  he  would  have  to  be." 

"Same  old  Manuel,"  was  Sandy's  reply.  "But 
he  's  kind  o'  got  some  new  notions  in  his  headpiece 
lately,  along  of  our  sin-bustin'  friend  Mister  Gard 
gettin'  after  'im  last  time  he  started  onto  a  spree." 

"Yes  ?"  His  hearer  was  deeply  interested  in  ex- 
amining Dickens'  sound  little  knees,  and  did  not 
look  up. 

236 


THE  WELL  IN  THE  DESERT 

"Why  do  you  call  Mr.  Card  your  sin-busting 
friend,  Sandy?"  she  asked,  still  intent  upon  the 
pony.  Nothing  loth,  the  foreman  plunged  into  an 
enthusiastic  account  of  his  first  meeting  with  Card. 
Helen  listened,  her  cheeks  still  glowing  from  exer- 
cise. 

"I  never  got  the  rights  o'  how  he  took  hold  o' 
Manuel,"  Sandy  said,  when  the  story  was  finished, 
"Manuel,  he  ain't  talkin'  none  about  it;  but  he 
started  out  on  one  o'  his  regular  imbibin'  bees, 
which  same  the  patron  'd  give  out  was  n't  to  be 
overlooked  again,  an'  all  I  know  is  he  comes  home 
all  right  next  mornin'  an'  gets  on  his  job,  just  as 
I  'm  supposin'  it  's  me  to  be  rustlin'  another 
puncher.  I  'm  mighty  glad  just  then,  for  Manuel 's 
sure  a  first-class  man  on  cows.  He  allows  Gard 
made  him  come,  an'  I  know  nobody  else  ever  was 
able  to  gentle  'im  in  when  he  was  up  against  the 
impulses  for  a  tussle  with  booze." 

"Gard,  he  's  got  me,"  the  foreman  went  on.  "He 
ain't  none  o'  your  hymn-tune  kind  Miss  Helen ;  but 
he  's  a  right  kind  all  right;  just  plain  good  man; 
which  the  same  ain't  common  nowadays." 

Helen,  with  Patsy  beside  her,  was  starting  for 
the  casa. 

"I  guess  you  're  right  Sandy,"  she  called  back, 
absently,  without  turning  around,  and  Sandy 
looked  after  her  with  scant  approval. 

237 


THE  WELL  IN  THE  DESERT 

"There  you  Ve  got  it,"  he  muttered  discontent- 
edly, to  the  pony,  "Old  an'  young  they  're  all  alike, 
the  women,  when  it  comes  to  sizin'  up  a  real  man. 
If  it  ain't  the  shine  an'  the  pretty  manners  for 
them,  why  it 's  the  high  forehead,  an'  the  big  idees. 
I  'm  disappointed  she  don't  see  that  more  clearly, 
an'  she  ridin'  herd  on  a  college  education  for  four 
years!" 

He  led  Dickens  away  toward  the  sheds  and 
turned  him  over  to  one  of  the  men. 

"I  suppose  now"— he  went  on  with  his  medita- 
tions—  "She  's  fooled  into  thinkin'  that  there  side- 
winder of  an  Ash  Westcott  's  the  real  thing.  Lord ! 
If  the  right  brand  was  on  him  I  know  what  it  'd 
look  like!"  and  the  foreman  went  about  his  duties 
with  a  heavy  heart. 


238 


CHAPTER  IX 

OANDY  LARCH  was  squatted  on  the  sand, 
^-7 against  the  wall  of  his  shack,  lacing  a  new 
leather  into  the  cincha-ring  of  his  saddle,  and  sing- 
ing The  Tune  The  Old  Cow  Died  On.  The  ditty 
was  one  of  his  favorites,  but  his  soul  was  not  in  it 
this  morning  and  he  sang  as  mechanically  as  his 
fingers  moved  about  their  familiar  task.  It  was  the 
morning  after  Card's  loss  of  the  packet,  and  he  had 
been  out  at  daybreak,  going  over  every  foot  of  the 
breaking-ground,  but  he  could  find  no  trace  of  it, 

"Gosh !  I  'm  sorry,"  he  muttered,  testing  the  new 
strap.  "I  hate  to  see  Card  look  like  he  did  fer  a 
spell  yesterday.  If  I  had  any  idee  Westcott  had 
that  thing,  whatever  it  was,  I  'd  choke  it  out'n 
him,  fer  a  punched  two-bit-piece." 

He  turned  the  saddle  over  to  investigate  the 
other  strap,  taking  up  the  burden  of  his  song 
again : 

239 


THE  WELL  IN  THE  DESERT 

is 

/    \ 

this        the  fi  roll 

/  v       x        -  x 

"And  tune  doll 

\ 
dey 

noon!" 
ter- 
that  af- 
sung 

DO/  ~— 

He  rolled  out  the  chorus  at  the  top  of  his  lungs, 
as  he  cut  loose  the  cincha-thongs,  and  had  carried 
the  next  verse  to 

er 

/     \ 
"The  farm-         had  quest  held 

an  in- 


what  h 

/          \         / 
see  ailed 


When  a  shadow  fell  upon  the  sand  before  him, 
and  he  looked  up  to  see  Wing  Chang. 
240 


THE  WELL  IN  THE  DESERT 

"Well,  my  Chinee  friend,"  he  said,  "Why  don't 
you  join  in  ?  Can't  you  sing  ?" 

"No  can/'  The  cook  shook  his  head;  then  the 
wrinkles  about  his  slant  eyes  deepened,  ran  down- 
ward, and  met,  midway  of  his  chops,  the  upward 
ones  that  started  around  his  grinning  mouth. 

"Allee  samee  you?"     He  questioned,  slyly. 

"Allee  samee  me  what?"  demanded  Sandy,  sus- 
piciously. 

"Sing.    You  catchee  him  ?" 

"Do  I  sing,  are  you  askin'?"  roared  the  fore- 
man. "Why  you  yaller  heathen!  Ain't  you  just 
bin  hearin'  me  sing?" 

Wing  Chang's  grin  intensified,  and  gradually 
Sandy's  own  visage  widened  genially. 

"Take  your  rise,"  he  said,  "you  sure  got  it  out'n 
me  then.  .  .  .  Look  a'  here,"  he  added,  "What 
you  hangin'  round  here  stealin'  music  lessons  fer? 
Where  you  bin,  anyway  ?" 

"Bin  talkee  Bloome,"  Chang  said.  "Him  wantee 
coffee." 

"Broome !  What  in  hell  's  Broome  doin'  round 
here  this  time  o'  day  ?" 

The  sly  look  deepened  in  Chang's  face.  His 
slant  eyes  narrowed,  and  lost  their  humorous  twin- 
kle. 

"Say  him  sick,"  he  explained.     "Think  mebby 
Mistlee  Westclott  come  bimeby." 
16  241 


THE  WELL  IN  THE  DESERT 

"Not  this  time,  my  wise  Chink.  Westcott  's 
homeward  bound  for  Tucson  just  about  now." 

"Whaf or  Mistlee  Glad  go  away  ?"  Wing  Chang 
asked,  ignoring  the  other's  statement. 

"I  d'  know,  Chang."  The  foreman  whistled  a 
f  ewnotes,  meditatively.  The  Chinaman  drew  nearer. 

"Whafor  Bloome  an'  Mistlee  Westclott  hatee 
him  so?" 

Sandy  regarded  him  severely. 

"See  here,  now,  Chang,"  he  bluffed,  "You  think 
I  'm  a  animated  booktionary  work,  guaranteeded  to 
fit  all  your  Svhatfors'  with  'is  whats'?  Not  on 
your  life.  Ain't  I  told  you  your  job  's  cookin'? 
You  don't  have  to  break  out  no  question-marks  on 
this  here  rancho.  Sabbee  dat?" 

Wing  Chang  returned  his  intent  look  without 
winking. 

"Him  two  allee  samee  hatee  Mistlee  Glad,"  he 
repeated.  "Speakee  'bout  him  allee  timee,  behind 
corral.  Allee  timee  say  'dlamn',  an'  spit,  so."  He 
illustrated  on  the  desert. 

"Heap  you  know,"  the  foreman  said,  still  more 
severely:  "you  think  you  're  a  blanked  Pinkerton 
detective,  don't  you?  Well  you  ain't.  Your  job  's 
beans,  an'  bull  meat.  You  go  makee  him." 

He  waved  a  hand  in  the  direction  of  Chang's 
official  quarters,  and  the  Chinaman's  perennial  grin 
returned. 

242 


THE  WELL  IN  THE  DESERT 

"Alice  lightee,"  he  said,  "Then  you  .keep  look  see 
out  on  Mistlee  Westclott.  Bimeby,  he  try  do  Mist- 
lee  Glad  dirt,  I  makee  my  bull  meat  off  him." 

He  walked  off,  his  hands  in  his  sleeves,  and 
Sandy  Larch  looked  after  him  thoughtfully. 

"Now  I  wonder  what  that  Chink  thinks  he 
knows/'  he  mused.  "Chang  ain't  no  fool.  He  's 
hip  to  somethin'.  'T  ain't  good  discipline  to  ask 
questions  off'n  a  Chink;  but  I  sure  wish  I  could 
see  into  his  shiny  skull." 

He  picked  up  the  saddle  and  took  it  into  the 
shack,  returning,  after  a  moment,  to  stand  in  the 
door,  humming  — 


was  to 

/     x  /  x 

cow          \  she  tried       \ 

/  x  /  x 

"  d 

" 


But  the  mad,  and  sing 

....  Thunder  an'  punkins  ! 


He  did  not  realize  his  variation  on  the  ordinary 
version  of  his  song.  He  had  brought  his  warbling 
to  a  sudden  finish,  and  stood  peering  out  at  a  horse- 
man who  was  riding  along  the  edge  of  the  farthest 
corral. 

After  a  second  he  stepped  back  into  the  shanty, 
and  watched  through  the  crack  of  the  half  -open  door. 

"Sure  's  shootin'  "  he  muttered,  "The  Chink  was 
right.  It  is  Westcott." 

243 


THE  WELL  IN  THE  DESERT 

His  ear  caught  a  low  whistle  that  was  presently 
answered  from  quarters.  Sandy  remembered  that 
he,  himself,  was  supposed  to  be  at  the  upper  range. 
He  would  have  been  on  .his  way  there  but  for  the 
defect  in  his  cincha-strap.  He  stopped  to  consider, 
wondering  whether  he  had  been  singing  loud 
enough  for  Broome  to  hear  him. 

"That  's  what  comes  o'  tryin'  to  be  a  prima 
donna"  he  muttered.  "But  any  way  I  bin  still 
long  enough  to  make  him  think  I  'm  gone,  if  he  did 
hear." 

He  stepped  out  upon  the  sand. 

"They  's  something  sure  goin'  on  out  yonder," 
he  said,  "Sandy  Larch,  you  're  managing  this  here 
shebang  while  the  patron  's  away;  why  ain't  you 
eligible  to  a  box-seat  ?" 

A  long  row  of  outhouses  and  ranch  buildings 
stretched  out  from,  the  foreman's  shack  to  the 
men's  quarters,  and  still  beyond  these  were  two 
fodder-sheds.  The  last  of  these  was  about  half 
full  of  hay.  It  stood  at  the  very  edge  of  the  far- 
ther corral,  and  Sandy  noted  that  Westcott  had 
ridden  up  into  its  shade. 

The  foreman  slipped  off  his  jangling  spurs,  and 
keeping  well  in  the  shadow  of  the  buildings,  made 
his  way  to  this  shed.  He  went  with  wonderful 
lightness  and  quickness  for  so  big  a  man,  and  was 
presently  creeping  among  the  hay  bales. 
244 


THE  WELL  IN  THE  DESERT 

Outside,  Westcott  sat  his  horse,  while  Broome 
leaned  against  the  wall.  Guided  by  the  sound  of 
their  voices,  Sandy  worked  his  way  along,  close  to 
the  boards,  until  he  was  directly  opposite  them. 

"What  makes  you  think  you  know  where  the 
burro  is?"  Westcott  was  saying  as  Sandy  came 
within  hearing. 

"That 's  my  think,"  was  the  sulky  reply.  "I  ain't 
no  way  bound  to  tell  you  it,  special  as  you  say  you 
don't  care  about  sittin'  in  the  game." 

"Oh,  I  did  n't  really  say  that!"  There  was  a 
curious  ring  of  exultation  in  Westcott's  voice. 

"I  only  said,"  he  resumed,  "that  I  had  my  own 
ways  of  finding  out  things.  I  have ;  and  I  dare  say 
I  could  put  my  hands  on  your  burro,  if  I  needed  it 
in  my  business." 

"A  heap  you  could,"  Broome  sneered.  "Mebby 
you  think  you  kin  put  your  hands  on  Card,  too,  if 
you  need  'im  in  your  bizness.  Well,  mebby  you 
kin;  an'  mebby  you  would  n't  git  smashed  if  you 
tried  it." 

"Put  my  hands  on  him—  The  lawyer's  voice 
was  thick  with  emotion.  "I  've  got  the  blasted  fool 
between  my  thumb  and  finger  now,"  he  said, 
"When  I  get  ready,  I  can  smash  him  like  that!" 

Sandy  Larch  heard  the  speaker's  two  palms 
come  together. 

"Not  while  Sandy  Larch  is  'round,  my  fine  liar- 

245 


THE  WELL  IN  THE  DESERT 

at-law,"  he  muttered  under  his  breath.  Then  he 
heard  Broome's  incredulous  grunt. 

"What 's  got  you  bughouse?"  the  cowboy  asked, 
and  Westcott  laughed. 

"Do  you  want  to  know  who  this  fine  Mister  Ga- 
briel Card  really  is  ?"  He  sneered,  and  the  listener 
in  the  shed  fairly  held  his  breath  to  hear. 

"Do  you  know?    You  said  you  did  n't." 

"I  just  happen  to,"  Westcott  said,  deliberately. 
"And  I  know  he  could  no  more  file  on  a  claim,  or 
on  anything  else  in  this  land,  than  that  little  she- 
ass  you  seem  so  keen  to  get  hold  of." 

"Why  not?" 

"Because—"  Westcott's  voice  was  vibrant  with 
hate. 

"Because,"  he  repeated,  "He  's  a  damned  state- 
prison  convict.  That 's  why  not !" 

Inside  the  shed  Sandy  Larch's  face  shone  white 
in  the  gloom.  Outside  there  was  a  sound  of 
Broome's  hard  breathing.  Westcott's  statement 
seemed  to  have  deprived  the  cowboy  of  speech. 

"Do  you  remember  Dan  Lundy?"  the  lawyer 
said,  and  Sandy  started. 

"I  never  knowed  'im,"  Broome  replied.  "He 
was  a  pal  o'  Sandy  Larch's." 

"So  ?  I  did  n't  know  that.  Then  this  here  Card 
won't  be  so  thick  here  when  Sandy  knows.  But  he 
246 


THE  WELL  IN  THE  DESERT 

won't  be  very  thick  anywhere,  in  the  open,  for  that 
matter."  Westcott  laughed. 

"This  fellow  's  the  one  who  did  the  business  for 
Lundy,"  he  added. 

"Killed  him?" 

"Knifed  him  in  his  shack.  He  did  three  years 
for  it,  and  then  broke  jail." 

"How  d'  you  know?" 

The  foreman  strained  his  ears  to  listen,  a  look  of 
wondering  comprehension  in  his  face. 

"That  's  my  business,"  Westcott  said.  "I  've 
got  it  down  in  black  and  white.  He  came  up  to 
Blue  Gulch  when  I  was  there,  and  Frank  Arnold 
came  up  to  take  him  again.  That  was  Arnold's 
last  job." 

"He  was  drowned,  I  remember,"  Broome  spoke 
in  a  hoarse  whisper. 

"Either  that,  or  this  fellow  that  calls  himself 
Card  did  for  him,  as  he  did  for  Lundy.  Arnold 
was  a  good  man.  Lord !  When  I  think  the  other 
fellow  's  hanging  around  here  with  Larch  this  min- 
ute-" 

"He  ain't  here;"  Broome  said.  "He  went  off 
yest'day." 

"Fury!    Whereto?" 

"I  d'  know.  He  rode  off  some  time  in  th'  after- 
noon. He  'd  lost  somethin'  when  we  was  workin' 
247 


THE  WELL  IN  THE  DESERT 

out  them  blame  cows,  an'  was  mighty  cut  up,  I 
heard.  An'  when  he  could  n't  find  it  he  went  off." 

"Skipped— blast  it!"  Westcott  seemed  to  con- 
sider. 

"I  know  what  he  lost,  all  right,"  he  went  on. 
"Good  thing  for  him  Sandy  Larch  did  n't  find  it. 
But  I  '11  land  him  all  right,  too  ...  But  that 
ain't  the  point,"  the  lawyer  continued.  "The  point 
is  this :  He  can't  hold  that  claim.  There  's  nothing 
to  keep  us  from  walking  in  and  taking  possession, 
if  you  think  you  can  find  it." 

"You  bet  your  life  I  can  find  it,"  Broome  swore. 

"First,  though,"  Westcott  spoke  again,  "I  want 
to  go  up  to  Phoenix.  I  can  get  the  noon  train. 
And  I  'm  going  to  fix  our  Mister  Card— his  name 
was  Barker  in  those  days — as  he  ought  to  be  fixed. 
He  won't  be  out  of  reach  so  that  the  authorities 
can't  find  him,  and  he  won't  get  away  this  time. 
Then  I  '11  go  down  to  Tucson  and  file  that  claim 
right.  Since  he  's  got  no  legal  status  anyone  can 
do  that.  Then  I  '11  come  back  here  and  we  '11  talk 
about  the  rest." 

"Look  a'  here,"  Broome  interrupted,  "You  don't 
do  no  filin'  till  I  'm  erlong,  or  you  never  gits  to 
where  the  pay-streak  is.  You  've  gotter  do  some 
work  on  it  anyway,  before  you  kin  file  legal." 

"Oh,  shut  up !  Tell  me  what  the  law  is?"  West- 
cott's  tone  was  brutal.  "You  blamed  fool,"  he 
248 


THE  WELL  IN  THE  DESERT 

said,  "Do  you  think  I  can't  get  along  without 
you?" 

"I  ain't  sech  a  fool  's  some,"  was  Broome's  re- 
tort, "I  know  you  can't,  er  you  would  n't  be  here. 
You  want  me  to  help  find  the  spot,  an'  you  know 
it." 

"There  's  no  use  fighting  over  it,"  said  Westcott, 
more  moderately ;  "I  was  going  to  Tucson  this  af- 
ternoon; but  I  '11  go  up  to  Phoenix  first.  Mind 
you,  now,"  he  added,  "No  funny  business  while 
I  'm  gone,  or  it  '11  be  a  bad  day  for  you." 

Sandy  Larch  heard  Westcott  ride  away.  A  mo- 
ment later  Broome's  step  sounded,  returning  to 
quarters. 

The  foreman  waited  some  time  before  venturing 
out.  When  he  did  come  into  the  light  his  face 
wore  a  strange,  half-dazed  expression. 

"Well!"  he  finally  ejaculated,  "I  sure  got  my 
money's  worth  that  time." 

He  walked  over  to  one  of  the  corrals  and  stood 
staring  with  unseeing  eyes  at  a  bunch  of  yearlings 
huddled  together  in  a  corner. 

"The  dangnation  fools !" 

His  exclamation  seemed  to  afford  him  no  relief ; 
for  presently  he  repeated  it. 

"The  dangnation  fools !" 

"I  should  think,"  he  added,  "that  that  there 
Westcott  person  'd  wanter  kick  himself  fer  a  sun- 
249 


THE  WELL  IN  THE  DESERT 

baked  'dobe  ape,  when  he  finds  out  what  he  's 
bound  to  find  out,  when  he  gets  askin'  questions 
along  o'  Phoenix." 

"The  plumb  fool,"  he  said,  again.  "To  think  he 
don't  know  Jim  Texas  confessed  to  killin'  Dan. 
The  pizen-snake  always  said  he  would,  an'  poor 
old  Dan  was  mighty  foolhardy  about  it. 

"But,  God!"— his  tone  was  full  of  pity— "To 
think  that  'Gard'  was  that  poor  devil  of  a  Barker ! 
How  in  tunk  did  he  ever  git  where  he  is  now?" 

He  picked  up  a  bit  of  stone  and  flung  it  at  the 
yearlings ;  not  because  he  bore  them  a  grudge,  but 
through  sheer  vexation  of  spirit. 

"If  he  'd  only  a'  told  me,"  his  thoughts  went 
back  to  Gard.  "If  he  'd  only  a'  trusted  me,  'stid 
o'  writin'  it  out  fer  that  hell-dog  to  find."  He 
leaned  upon  the  top-rail  of  the  corral  and  sighed. 

"Lord,"  he  said,  "I  'm  pretty  near  all  in.  It  's 
too  much  fer  Sandy!" 

He  could  not  understand  Card's  agitation  over 
the  loss  of  his  packet,  if,  as  he  now  surmised,  it 
merely  contained  the  papers  by  which  Westcott  had 
identified  him.  He  pondered  the  matter  for  some 
time,  and  then  light  dawned. 

"Look  a'  here!"  he  cried.     "He  's  in  the  same 

boat  's  Westcott!    He  's  bin  up  in  the  mountains 

ever  since  he  made  his  getaway ;  that 's  what !    Fer 

some  reason  or  other  he  's  just  come  down,  I 

250 


THE  WELL  IN  THE  DESERT 

wondered  where  in  tunk  he  'd  drifted  in  from. 
An'  he  ain't  found  out  yet  about  Jim  Texas." 

Silence  again,  while  Sandy  meditated  upon  the 
situation.  Then  another  phase  of  it  struck  him. 

"What  's  he  doin'  round  here,  anyway?  Why 
ain't  he  showin'  some  enterprise?  What  's  he 
hangin'  round  Kate  Hallard  for?" 

He  could  not  tell.  It  was  the  one  thing  about 
Card  that  to  him  seemed  to  need  explanation,  and 
he  would  trust  his  friend  without  that.  He  was 
dismissing  the  matter  when  a  fresh  thought  came. 

"If  he  don't  know,"  he  muttered.  "If  he  ain't 
fixed  his  matters  up,  then  that  sneakin'  law-buz- 
zard 's  right.  He  can't  file  any  claim.  They  can 
do  him,  there ;  even  if  they  can't  jail  'im.  By  the 
powers !  That  's  what  they  can  do ;  an'  here  I  am, 
can't  leave  the  rancho !" 

He  groaned  as  this  thought  came  home  to  him. 
He  realized  that  he  must  stay  at  the  Palo  Verde: 
Morgan  Anderson  had  left  him  in  charge. 

"If  *'t  want  fer  leavin'  the  little  gal  all  alone—" 
He  stood  distractedly  considering. 

"I  don't  know  enough  about  it  anyway,"  he  at 
last  exclaimed  in  despair.  "Ah!  That  's  where 
Kate  Hallard  comes  in." 

The  words  were  scarcely  off  his  lips  when  look- 
ing up,  he  gave  a  low  whistle  of  surprise. 

"Sure  's  beeswax,"  he  said,  softly,  unconsciously 

251 


OF  THE 


THE  WELL  IN  THE  DESERT 

straightening  up.     "Here  's  exactly  where  Kate 
Hallard  comes  in." 

It  was  in  fact  Mrs.  Hallard,  riding  in  from  the 
desert,  her  handsome  face  more  troubled  in  ex- 
pression than  Sandy  had  ever  imagined  it  could  be. 

"Hello,  Kate,."  he  called,  going  to  meet  her. 
"What 's  up  ?  You  don't  look  like  you  was  out  f er 
your  health  so  to  speak." 

"I  ain't."  Mrs.  Hallard  drew  rein  and  looked 
down  at  the  foreman. 

"I  ain't  out  fer  my  health  an'  I  ain't  sure  what 
I  be  out  after,"  she  said,  without  further  preamble. 

"Ash.  Westcott  was  in  t'  the  grille  this  morning 
tryin'  to  make  a  deal  with  me  in  a  matter  Mr. 
Card  's  been  tendin'  to  fer  me.  I  would  n't  swap 
no  lies  with  him  and  bimeby  he  gets  mad  an'  runs 
off  a  lot  o'  talk  I  don't  seem  to  get  straight,  but  it 
sounded  like  he  had  Gard  nailed,  an'  was  goin'  to 
do  'im  dirt.  Sure  's  you  live,  Sandy,  he  's  meanin' 
mischief.  I  'm  worried." 

She  turned  her  horse  toward  the  shade,  Sandy 
walking  beside  her. 

"I  d'  know  what  to  do,"  she  continued.  "Mr. 
Gard,  he  's  gone  off  on  business  o'  mine  an*  I 
d'  know  what  Westcott  is  cookin'  up  against  him. 
I  know  he  's  got  a  good  will  to  do  him  all  the 
harm  he  can,  though,  an'  I  come  over  to  talk  to 
you  about  it." 

252 


THE  WELL  IN  THE  DESERT 

The  cow-puncher  stood  regarding  her,  intently. 

"Kate,"  he  said,  "do  you  know  who  this  Gabriel 
Gard  really  is?" 

She  looked  at  him  blankly,  her  hard  face  set. 

"You  don't  need  stand  me  off,"  he  cried.  "If 
you  're  his  friend  you  know  I  am,  too.  An'  he  's 
sure  needin'  us  both." 

He  told  her,  with  picturesque  brevity,  of  Card's 
loss  and  Westcott's  find,  and  of  the  talk  which  he 
had  overheard  between  Westcott  and  Broome. 

"Them  blamed  sneakin'  coyotes  is  puttin'  up  a 
cinch  game  on  our  man,"  he  said,  when  he  had 
finished,  "an'  something  's  gotter  be  done  about  it. 
Where  's  Gard  gone  ?  Is  that  his  real  name  ?  Why 
ain't  he  lookin'  after  his  matters?" 

Mrs.  Hallard  was  thinking  fast.  Sandy's  story 
had  been  illuminating  in  many  ways. 

"You  're  dead  right  about  one  thing,  Sandy," 
she  said.  "He  don't  know  about  Jim  Texas. 
That 's  what  's  bin  eatin'  'im." 

She  suddenly  realized  the  significance  of  Card's 
answer  to  her  question  about  Helen  Anderson. 
He  did  not  know  that  his  innocence  was  practi- 
cally established. 

"Well,"  Sandy  demanded,  "what  in  thunder  's 
he  doin'  round  here  then  ?  Why  ain't  he  tryin'  to 
fix  things  up  fer  himself?  He  's  got  a'  plenty 
cash.  He  ought  to  be  gittin'  a  good  lawyer  an* 


THE  WELL  IN  THE  DESERT 

\ 

seein'  if  he  can't  prove  his  innercence.  As  't  is 
now,  he  must  think  he  's  likely  to  be  jugged  any 
minit." 

Kate  Hallard's  eyes  flashed. 

"He  does  think  so,"  she  cried.  "He  's  afraid  of 
it,  too.  That  I  know.  An'  bein'  afraid,  here  's 
what  the  man  does :" 

She  leaned  from  the  saddle  and  looked  Sandy  in 
the  eyes. 

"He  somehow  gits  hold  of  a  deed  o'  Sam  Hal- 
lard's,  to  that  Modesta  range  Sam  bought  just 
'fore  he  was  killed.  I  give  that  deed  to  Arnold  to 
record,  an'  Mr.  Gard  ain't  said  nothin'  to  me,  but 
I  figure  he  an'  Arnold  was  together  when  the 
cloudburst  come  that  gits  Arnold.  He  got  Frank's 
coat,  someway,  an'  that  deed  was  in  the  pocket. 
I  d'  know  where  he  's  bin  all  this  time,  but  I  know 
one  thing.  He  ain't  bin  in  no  wickedness." 

"Bet  your  life  not,"  Sandy  assented.  "Drive 
erlong,  Kate." 

"Well :  the  deed  's  bin  lost  these  two  years,  an* 
that  devil,  Westcott,  he  found  it  out,  an'  he  done 
me  out'n  the  prop'ty.  Oh!  He  's  a  side-winder, 
fersure!" 

"That 's  no  lie,"  was  Sandy's  comment. 

"It  's  plain  's  day,"  Mrs.  Hallard  went  on. 
"You  say  he  's  got  a'  plenty  cash.  I  know  he 
could  light  out  from  here  an'  go  where  he  could 

254 


THE  WELL  IN  THE  DESERT 

live  like  a  lord.  He  's  got  that  much  a'  plenty. 
But  'stid  o'  that  he  comes  back  here  to  this  God- 
forsaken place;  an'  what  for?  Why  to  help  me. 
He  must  a'  tracked  over  half  the  territory  to  find 
me  an'  gimme  back  that  deed;  an'  when  he  finds 
how  things  stands  he  settles  down  here  to  see  I 
git  my  rights.  With  this  thing  a'  hangin'  over 
him,  so  far  's  he  knows,  he  's  gone  back  where  he 
was  known,  to  try  'n'  find  a  feller  that  witnessed 
the  transfer  .  .  ." 

Kate  Hallard  was  all  but  sobbing  with  excite- 
ment and  fear. 

"Lord  above  us, — if  they  is  any!"  she  gasped. 
"They  ain't  never  a  man  like  that.  He  's  pure 
angel!" 

"Naw;  he  ain't  that,  quite,"  Sandy  said,  swal- 
lowing hard.  "He  's  man  enough  to  need  that 
gold-mine  in  his  business,  one  o'  these  days,  an'  he 
stands  to  git  robbed  o'  that,  I  'm  afraid." 

"How  can  they  touch  it?     He  's  an  innercent 


man." 


"Yes ;  but  he  's  a  criminal  yet,  in  the  eyes  o'  the 
law,  if  he  ain't  bin  pardoned  an'  cleared.  So  his 
notice  an'  filin'  ain't  legal." 

"Hell!"  he  exclaimed,  and  begged  pardon  next 
instant.  "I  wish  I  was  in  Prescott,"  he  added. 

"What  would  you  do  in  Prescott?"  Mrs.  Hal- 
lard  asked,  eagerly. 

255 


THE  WELL  IN  THE  DESERT 

"Do?  I  'd  see  the  Gov'nor;  git  them  papers 
made  out,  an'  scoot  fer  Tucson  an'  bring  that  there 
filin'  up  to  date." 

"Heavens  an'  earth!  Kin  anybody  do  that  fer 
'im?" 

"Sure." 

"Then  look  here,  Sandy  Larch:  /  'm  goin'  to 
Prescott." 

"You?" 

"Yes,  me;  why  not?  You  say  anybody  kin  see 
the  Gov'nor  fer  'im.  Well:  they  ain't  many  peo- 
ple knows  Dave  Harden  much  better  'n  I  did  once. 
I  rather  reckon  he  'd  do  's  much  fer  me  's  fer 
you." 

There  was  a  deeper  hue  in  the  speaker's  cheek 
than  even  excitement  had  touched  it  to:  but  the 
foreman  did  not  notice  it. 

"Bully  fer  you  Kate !"  he  cried.  "I  'm  inclined 
to  think  well  o'  that  scheme  o'  your'n." 

"I  '11  have  to  hustle  if  I  'm  goin'  to  git  away 
to-day."  Mrs.  Hallard  was  practical  and  alert  at 
once.  "I  guess  I  can  skip  back  an'  git  ready  to 
catch  the  night  train.  That  '11  get  me  to  Prescott 
in  the  morning." 

"Westcott,  he  's  just  gone  up  on  the  noon  run," 
Sandy  explained.  "He  '11  be  goin'  on  to  Phoenix 
I  reckon." 

"Lord!     I  don't  wanter  see  him.     I  'm  glad  I 

256 


THE  WELL  IN  THE  DESERT 

could  n't  get  that  train  if  I  tried."  Mrs.  Hallard 
was  already  riding  away. 

"So  long,  Sandy !"  she  cried,  over  her  shoulder. 
"I  '11  do  my  best." 

"Good  luck  to  you !"  Sandy  waved  his  big  cow- 
boy hat. 

"Kate  '11  fetch  it  I  reckon,"  he  muttered,  turn- 
ing toward  the  sheds.  "But  now  who  'd  a'  thunk 
we  'd  a'  fixed  it  up  that  a'way?  Gosh-hemlock ! 
What  funny  things  you  see  when  you  ain't  got  a 
gun!" 

Kate  Hallard,  meantime,  was  thinking  of  many 
things  as  she  rode  back  to  Sylvania.  The  tide  of 
old  memories  was  at  flood  as  she  thought  of  the 
man  whom  she  was  going  to  see  in  Card's  behalf. 
She  had  spoken  truly  when  she  told  Sandy  Larch 
she  had  once  known  the  Governor  well.  How 
well,  was  a  matter  that  lay  deep  in  her  heart,  a 
part  of  her  hard,  sordid,  unprotected  girlhood, 
dead  and  buried  now  these  thousand  years,  it 
seemed  to  her.  Something  within  her  that  she  had 
thought  was  dead  with  it  shrank  from  the  en- 
counter of  the  morrow,  but  cowardice  was  not  one 
of  the  woman's  weaknesses.  She  set  her  shoulders 
squarely  at  the  memory  of  what  Gard  was  braving 
for  her. 

"They  's  one  thing  sure,"  she  said,  half-aloud. 
"Dave  '11  do  anything  can  be  done.  I  reckon  I 

17  257 


THE  WELL  IN  THE  DESERT 

can  bank  on  that.  He  wa'  n't  a  bad  sort  in  the  old 
days."  . 

The  road  ran  along  the  edge  of  an  ancient 
lake,  now  a  sea  of  sand,  and  for  many  years,  in 
the  new  order,  the  great  rodeo  ground  of  the 
region.  The  entrance  was  yet  marked  by  two  big 
posts,  one  of  which  bore  a  great  yellow-and-black 
poster,  such  as  the  Salvation  Army  puts  up  through 
the  desert  wastes,  seeking  to  turn  the  plainsman's 
thoughts  to  higher  things. 

Beneath  the  poster,  on  the  sand,  a  bull-snake  and 
a  burrowing  owl  fraternized  comfortably  at  the 
mouth  of  the  hole  that  was  their  common  dwell- 
ing. Above  it  a  carrion  crow  perched,  cawing 
dismally  at  the  scene.  The  poster  itself  was  sun- 
bleached  and  weather-worn,  peppered  with  the 
bullets  of  passing  cowboys  who  had  taken  jocular 
shots  at  it,  and  beaten  by  the  blown  desert-sand, 
but  still  legible.  Kate  Hallard  had  seen  many  of 
its  kind;  had  passed  this  very  one  on  her  way  out 
that  morning.  She  glanced  at  it  now. 

"FOR  GOD  SO  LOVED  THE  WORLD 
THAT  HE  GAVE  HIS  ONLY-BEGOTTEN 
SON,  THAT  WHOSOEVER  BELIEVETH 
ON  HIM  SHOULD  NOT  PERISH—"  The 
rest  was  obliterated. 

In  her  softened  mood  the  words  held  her  atten- 

258 


THE  WELL  IN  THE  DESERT 

tion  as  they  had  never  before  done.  She  checked 
her  horse  to  read  them  again. 

"I  d'  know  much  about  it,"  she  murmured.  "The 
desert  's  always  been  a  mighty  handy  place  fer 
perishin';  if  they  was  a  God,  now,  an'  He  was 
interested  enough  to  give  us  a  few  more  folks  like 
this  here  Gabriel  Gard,  I  guess  mebby  believin'  'd 
come  handier,  too." 

She  rode  on  again,  still  thinking  of  Gard. 

"We  've  got  to  help  him  out  o'  this."  A  dull 
flush  crept  up  to  her  hair  and  her  black  eyes  sud- 
denly filled  with  unfamiliar  tears. 

"Go  to  Dave  Harden  fer  him—"  she  cried, 
"Lord !  I  'd  go  to  the  Old  Nick  himself  to  help 
him,  an'  that 's  the  truth !" 


259 


CHAPTER  X 

T  T  PON  my  word,  Kate !  Upon  my  word :  this  is 
U  the  biggest  surprise  I  'vt  had  since  I  came 
down  with  the  mumps  last  New  Year's !" 

The  Governor  of  Arizona  sprang  up  from  his 
big  desk  chair  and  crossed  the  room  as  Mrs.  Hal- 
lard  came  into  his  private  office.  His  manner  was 
cordial,  the  more  so,  perhaps,  that  it  was  tinged 
with  a  nervousness  of  which  he  was  uneasily 
aware.  If  Mrs.  Hallard  was  aware  of  this  nervous- 
ness, she  made  no  sign.  Her  own  manner  was 
strangely  quiet. 

"It  's  the  biggest  kind  of  a  surprise,"  the  Gov- 
ernor said,  again.  "I  could  hardly  believe  it  when 
they  brought  in  your  name." 

He  established  his  visitor  in  a  big  arm-chair,  and 
seated  himself  opposite  her,  his  face  a  little  in  the 
shadow. 

"Why,"  said  he,  "I  have  n't  seen  you,  Kate, 
since — "  He  paused,  abruptly. 

"It  's  a  long  time  since  you  seen  me,  Dave;  that 
260 


THE  WELL  IN  THE  DESERT 

's  straight,"  Mrs.  Hallard  said,  "But  I  'm  mighty 
glad  you  ain't  f ergot  me." 

"Forgotten  you !"  Governor  Marden's  tone  was 
reproachful. 

"Do  you  think  ten  years  is  enough  to  forget 
friends  in?"  he  demanded.  "Why—"  with  a 
laugh,— "even  a  political  memory  's  longer  than 
that,  Kate." 

There  was  silence  for  a  moment,  and  silence  was 
the  last  thing  the  Governor  desired  at  that  time. 

"I  never  heard  where  you  went  after  Ed's 
death,"  he  said,  tentatively. 

"You  would  n't  a'  bin  likely  to,"  was  the  reply. 
"I  moved  round  considerable  after  that." 

"So?  How  's  the  world  used  you,  on  the 
whole  ?  Pretty  prosperous  ?" 

"Up  an'  down.  I  ain't  so  awful  prosperous ;  but 
I  ain't  complainin'  neither.  I  'm  alive,  an'  what  I 
am,  workin'  fer  my  livin'  an'  neither  better  nor 
worse  'n  some  other  folks."  Mrs.  Hallard  spoke 
lightly,  and  her  tone  was  non-committal. 

"I  '11  bet  you  are  n't  any  worse  than  other  folks," 
the  Governor  said,  with  bluff  good-will.  "You 
were  always  better  than  ninety-nine  hundredths  of 
the  men,  Kate,"  he  added,  "while  as  for  the 


women—" 


Kate  Hallard  interrupted  him. 
"Don't  you  bother  about  them,  Dave,"  said  she, 
261 


THE  WELL  IN  THE  DESERT 

"I.  ain't  matchin'  myself  up  with  no  women.  It 
don't  pay." 

She  laughed,  a  hard  little  sound,  and  a  dull  flush 
went  up  to  the  Governor's  hair. 

"You  might,  for  a  fact,  though,  my  girl,"  he 
persisted,  half  sullenly.  "There  's  lots  of  women 
with  straight-laced  ideas  that  I  would  n't  trust  half 
so  quick.  Unlace  their  ideas  a  little  and  they  'd  go 
to  the  devil  so  quick  you  'd  never  catch  'em.  The 
lacing  's  all  that  holds  them." 

Mrs.  Hallard  made  no  reply ;  her  companion  sat 
regarding  her,  but  seeing,  instead  of  the  woman 
before  him,  the  quick,  handsome  girl  of  a  dozen 
years  earlier.  Old  "Soaker"  Lally's  daughter  had 
been  in  her  teens  when  first  he  knew  her,  handsome 
as  they  made  'em,  he  thought,  now,  remembering. 
And  he  had  been  a  young  fool — and  worse — but 
not  wholly  a  villain ;  not  that. 

"I— I  'd  have  made  things  right,  Kate,  if  you 
had  n't  sent  me  off/'  he  said,  lamely,  speaking  out 
of  old  memories. 

"Yes,"  the  woman  flashed,  "an'  we  'd  a'  had  a 
nice  little  hell  all  to  ourselves,  after." 

The  man  demurred. 

"Yes  we  would !"  she  went  on,  "I  know.     First 

place,  Dave — I  did  n't  sense  it  then,  but  I  have 

since— we  did  n't  neither  of  us  really  care.     We 

was  only  hot-blooded  young  fools  that  thought 

262 


THE  WELL  IN  THE  DESERT 

we  did.  .  .  .  Anyhow :  it 's  sleepin'  dogs  now,"  she 
added,  conclusively.  "Best  let  'em  lie.  You  done 
more  'n  most  men  would,  I  '11  say  that  much,  when 
you  wanted  to  marry  me — but  I  saved  you  that, 
anyhow,"  with  another  laugh;  "I  'd  a'  looked 
sweet,  would  n't  I?  tryin'  to  make  good  as  Gov- 
ernor's lady?" 

"You  'd  make  good  at  anything  you  undertook, 
Kate,"  Harden  insisted,  sturdily. 

"Maybe  so:  but  thank  my  stars  I  know,  yet, 
when  I  ain't  got  the  hand  to  stack  up  on.  What  a 
man  wants  in  a  wife,  Dave,  is  a  woman  't  can 
chaperon  his  daughter  when  he  gits  one." 

Mrs.  Hallard  hesitated  a  moment,  her  voice 
softening.  "I  never  had  no  watchin'  over,  my- 
self," she  said,  "I  would  n't  a'  stood  fer  't  from 
the  old  man,  an'  my  mother  died  when  I  was  a  kid ; 
but  a  girl  needs  it:  an'  it  takes  the  right  sort  o' 
woman  to  give  it." 

"That  's  nothing  here  nor  there,  though,"  she 
went  on,  in  her  wonted  tone ;  "Ed  Hallard  married 
me  with  his  eyes  open,  an'  I  was  a  good  straight 
wife  to  'im." 

"That  's  just  what  I  say,"  Marden  repeated. 
"I  'd  back  you  to  be  a  good  straight  anything  you 
undertook.  That 's  your  nature.  I  'm  not  passing 
you  any  bouquets,  my  girl.  You  were  always  as 
straight  as  a  man." 

263 


THE  WELL  IN  THE  DESERT 

Mrs.  Hallard  laughed,  with  cynical  good  humor. 

"Lord,  sonny!"  she  cried.  "If  them  ain't  bou- 
quets, be  a  little  easy  with  whatever  't  is  you  do 
call  'em.  Admirin'  the  men  as  I  do,  such  is  some 
overpowerin'." 

Governor  Marden  flushed  again,  and  edged 
away  from  ground  that  he  felt  to  be  precarious. 

"Look  here,"  he  said,  "What  do  you  mean  by 
saying  you  're  working  for  your  living?  Is  that 
a  figure  of  speech  ?  Ed  Hallard  ought  to  have  left 
you  well  fixed.  I  heard  he  sold  that  claim  of  his 
for  a  good  round  sum.  Did  n't  he  do  right  by  you, 
Kate?" 

"He  meant  to.  He  thought  he  did.  I  '11  tell 
you  about  that  later."  Mrs.  Hallard  waved  a  hand 
in  careless  dismissal  of  her  own  matters. 

"Dave,"  she  began,  earnestly,  "I  want  a  favor 
off  you." 

Governor  Marden  was  alert  in  an  instant. 

"Anything  I  can  do  for  you,  'for  old  sake's 
sake,'  "  he  answered. 

"This  ain't  any  old  sake's  sake,"  was  her  an- 
swer. "It  's  just  fair  play  an'  justice." 

"Ah!  That  's  different.  Fair  play  and  justice 
are  complicated  things  to  meddle  with."  The 
governor  shook  his  head.  * 

"You  bet  I  'm  learnin'  that,"  was  Mrs.  Hallard's 
reply.  "But  they  ain't  nothin'  much  complicated 
264 


THE  WELL  IN  THE  DESERT 

about  this  business.  It  oughter  be  plain  cuttin'  out 
an'  ridin'  off." 

"Were  n't  you  District  Attorney  when  Dan 
Lundy  was  killed,  Dave  ?"  she  asked,  suddenly. 

The  governor  started,  glancing  quickly  at  his 
interrogator.  Then  he  was  silent  for  a  moment, 
staring  thoughtfully  at  a  map  of  Arizona  on  the 
wall  back  of  Mrs.  Hallard's  chair. 

"Lord;  that  's  what  I  was!"  he  finally  said  with 
a  sigh.  "I  don't  like  to  talk  about  it,"  he  added. 

"Why  not?" 

"From  your  bringing  the  matter  up  I  guess  you 
know  why  not,"  Marden  frowned,  as  over  some 
painful  memory.  "I  reckon  you  've  got  some  idea 
how  it  was,"  he  continued.  "I  did  my  duty  as  I 
saw  it;  but  we  bagged  the  wrong  man,  and  I  've 
never  been  able  to  feel  happy  about  it." 

"Then  it  was  true  about  Jim  Texas  confessin'  ?" 

"Yes.  He  confessed  when  he  was  dying,  but  it 
did  n't  do  the  other  poor  fellow  any  good.  He 
was  dead  already."  The  governor  sighed  again. 
...  "I  told  you  justice  and  fair  play  were  ticklish 
things  to  handle,"  he  said. 

"But  he  ain't  dead." 

"Who  ain't?" 

"The  other  fellow.  He  was  n't  killed  when 
Frank  Arnold  was." 

Governor  Marden  sat  silent,  his  eyes  questioning 

265 


THE  WELL  IN  THE  DESERT 

his  visitor.  Kate  Hallard  explained,  briefly.  The 
governor  touched  a  bell,  and  his  secretary  ap- 
peared. The  latter  had  been  Marden's  clerk  in  his 
district  attorney  days. 

"Seth,"  the  official  said,  in  a  voice  that  rang 
with  suppressed  excitement.  "You  remember  the 
Lundy  case,  don't  you?  Whatever  became  of 
Barker,  who  went  up  for  it  ?" 

The  secretary  considered. 

"Why,  yes,"  he  began,  "he  broke  jail."  His 
auditors  nodded. 

"I  remember  about  it,"  he  went  on,  "because  of 
Jim  Texas,  and  what  came  after.  He  got  away 
to  some  place  in  the  mountains,  and  then  he  was 
re-arrested.  A  deputy-sheriff  went  down  on  in- 
formation from  Ash.  Westcott— " 

"What  's  that?"  Mrs.  Hallard's  tone  was  ex- 
plosive. 

"Who  d'  you  say?"  she  demanded. 

"Ashley  Westcott,"  the  secretary  repeated. 
"He  's- 

Kate  Hallard  interrupted  again,  her  eyes  blaz- 
ing. 

"I  know  who  he  is,"  she  flashed.  "He  's  the 
same  cur-dog  that  's  tryin'  to  down  'im  again. 
He  's  the  same— oh,  D— Governor  Harden,  you 
was  askin'  why  Ed  Hallard  did  n't  leave  me  better 
fixed.  Well:  here's  why:-" 
266 


THE  WELL  IN  THE  DESERT 

The  story  came  pouring  out  at  white  heat,  while 
the  two  men  listened,  now  and  then  exchanging 
significant  glances. 

"In  the  name  of  heaven,  Kate,"  the  governor 
said,  when  Mrs.  Hallard  paused  for  breath,  "why 
did  n't  you  come  and  tell  me  of  this  deviltry? 
We  'd  have  stopped  Westcott's  game  so  quick 
he  'd  never  have  known  he  chipped  into  it." 

"I  did  n't  know  any  better,"  the  woman  said, 
bitterly.  "I  don't  know  as  I  'd  a'  come  here  with 
it;  but  if  I  had  n't  bin  an  ignorant  fool  I  'd  a' 
knowed  I  could  do  something;  but  I  never  did  till 
Mr.  Card  told  me." 

"You  say  this  chap  calls  himself  Gard?  Is  that 
his  real  name,  or  Barker?  What  makes  you  think 
he  's  the  same  man  ?" 

"Only  what  Westcott  said— that  Sandy  Larch 
heard.  He  must  a'  found  something  that  put  'im 
wise." 

"It  looks  that  way,"  the  governor  said.  "West- 
cott 's  no  fool,  knave  though  he  is.  And  do  you 
know,  Kate— he  's  laying  his  lines  to  be  the  next 
District  Attorney !  It  looked,  till  you  came  in  and 
told  us  this,  as  if  he  'd  led  his  line  clean  to  Wash- 
ington. Didn't  it,  Seth?" 

The  secretary  gave  a  grunt.  Governor  Marden 
turned  again  to  Mrs.  Hallard.  "We  '11  meet  his 
game  this  time,"  he  said.  "See  him  and  go  him 

267 


THE  WELL  IN  THE  DESERT 

about  a  thousand  better.  You  've  done  me  a  big 
favor,  Kate.  What 's  the  one  you  want  done?" 

"I  want  Mr.  Card's  pardon  fixed  up,"  his  visitor 
said,  promptly.  "That  's  what  I  come  for.  I 
want  the  papers  fixed  up  right,  an'  then  I  wanter 
know  if  they  ain't  some  way  to  put  a  cinch  on  that 
there  claim." 

"Sure  there  is,"  was  the  reply.  "The  pardon  's 
dead  easy;  only  it  '11  have  to  be  Barker's  pardon. 
Seth,  you  fix  up  the  papers  will  you,  and  I  '11  sign 
right  off. 

"Glory  be!"  The  governor  heaved  a  mighty 
sigh  as  the  secretary  went  back  to  his  own  room. 
He  got  up  and  took  a  turn  about  the  office,  throw- 
ing back  his  shoulders  with  an  air  of  relief. 

"That  thing  's  weighed  on  me,"  he  exclaimed. 
"You  don't  know  what  mistakes  like  that  mean  to 
a  man.  It 's  been  a  dead  weight,  sometimes." 

He  turned,  quickly,  and  took  down  a  volume  of 
mining-law. 

"I  suppose,"  he  said,  after  pouring  over  its  pages 
for  some  moments,  "yes,  I  guess  Westcott  could  do 
something  about  that.  I  don't  know  as  he  'd  dare 
try,  when  he  finds  out  the  truth,  but  it 's  best  not  to 
take  any  risks  with  a  'sarpint'  like  that,  and  I  'm 
going  to  have  Unricht  go  down  to  Tucson  with 
you,  Kate,  and  fix  the  whole  matter  right.  There  's 
268 


THE  WELL  IN  THE  DESERT 

time  enough  to  get  a  night  train  if  you  want  to — " 
He  looked  at  his  watch. 

"That  's  just  what  I  do/'  she  replied,  promptly. 

"All  right,  then."  The  governor  turned.  Un- 
richt  had  come  in  with  a  document  ready  for  the 
official  signature. 

"I  was  n't  sure,"  the  secretary  said,  "so  I  stopped 
to  look  it  up  in  the  testimony.  Maybe  you  remem- 
ber, Governor,"  he  went  on,  "that  Barker  claimed 
at  the  trial  that  he  had  retained  Westcott  and  paid 
him  a  big  fee.  He  had  n't  any  more  money  to  pay 
a  lawyer;  so  the  court  appointed  him  one." 

The  governor  was  signing  the  paper. 

"By  gum !"  he  exclaimed,  looking  up,  "I  do  seem 
to  remember.  Sounded  like  a  cock-and-bull  story 
then.  Westcott  had  left  town,  you  know. 

"But  say,  friends:"  he  straightened  up  and 
looked  from  one  to  the  other  of  his  auditors, — 
"the  desert  's  got  a  beauteous  lot  of  poison  citi- 
zens," he  said,  "what  with  tarantulas,  and  side- 
winders, and  ground-rattlers,  and  Gila  monsters, 
and  hydrophobia  skunks;  but  it  don't  breed  any- 
thing more  poisonous  than  a  man,  when  he  is 
poison." 

He  threw  down  his  pen  and  handed  the  paper 
he  had  signed  to  Mrs.  Hallard. 

"That  's  done,"  he  said,  gleefully.  "Unricht, 
269 


THE  WELL  IN  THE  DESERT 

can  you  fix  it  to  go  down  to  Tucson  to-night,  and 
do  a  little  business  for  me  to-morrow  ?" 

The  secretary  consulted  his  calendar  and  decided 
that  he  could  arrange  for  the  expedition.  It  was 
agreed  that  Mrs.  Hallard  and  he  should  meet  at 
the  station  in  time  for  the  evening  train.  "About 
that  matter  of  your  own,  Kate/'  the  governor  said, 
as  Mrs.  Hallard  was  Reaving,  "I  should  n't  wonder 
if  your  Mr.  Barker-Card  was  equal  to  fixing  West- 
cott;  but  if  either  of  you  need  any  help  you  call 
on  David  Marden.  Now  don't  you  forget !" 

Unricht  and  Mrs.  Hallard  went  straight  to  the 
proper  office,  on  their  arrival  in  Tucson  next  morn- 
ing, and  the  secretary  saw  to  it  that  Card's  claim 
was  correctly  refiled,  and  the  matter  put  in  un- 
assailable shape.  This  done,  they  sought  the  St. 
Augustine,  where  Kate  was  to  wait  for  the  fore- 
noon train  to  Bonesta. 

"I  '11  have  to  leave  you  a  little  while  before  it 
goes,"  Unricht  was  saying,  as  they  stood  in  what 
had  been  the  vestibule  of  the  old  church.  "My 
own  train  is  earlier—" 

"Sh— hush— " 

Mrs.  Hallard  drew  her  companion  back  into  the 
slender  shelter  of  a  great  pillar.  "Look  over 
there,"  she  whispered,  and  Unricht  glanced  in  the 
direction  indicated. 

Westcott  had  just  come  into  the  building  and 
270 


THE  WELL  IN  THE  DESERT 

stepped  up  to  the  desk.  He  was  making  some  in- 
quiry about  the  next  train  south,  and  the  watchers 
had  a  good  look  at  him. 

His  face  was  livid,  and  drawn  into  an  expression 
of  concentrated  rage.  He  looked  like  a  venomous 
creature  of  the  desert,  and  as  he  crossed  the  office 
and  ascended  the  two  or  three  steps  to  the  great 
dining-room,  has  step  was  wavering  and  uncertain. 

"And  he  don't  drink,"  Unricht  whispered  to  Mrs. 
Hallard.  "I  know  that.  He 's  just  drunk  with  rage." 

"But  I  don't  wanter  go  down  on  the  same  train 
with  him,"  Mrs.  Hallard  whispered  back.  "I 
should  be  scared  o'  my  life." 

Unricht  reassured  her.  "He  would  n't  really 
hurt  you,"  he  said,  "but  I  don't  blame  you  for 
wanting  to  dodge  him.  I  should  n't  wonder  if  he 
was  going  down  to  see  you,  though.  He  must 
know  he  's  in  a  pretty  pickle  if  he  can't  make 
terms  with  you.  Maybe  you  'd  better  see  him 
now,  while  I  'm  along,"  he  suggested. 

Mrs.  Hallard  demurred.  "I  'd  rather  get  home," 
she  said.  "Mr.  Card  may  be  there." 

"All  right,"  was  the  reply.  "I  '11  telephone 
Larch  you  're  getting  the  afternoon  train." 

They  slipped  out  and  went  to  another  hotel, 
thereby  missing  Card,  who  presently  came  in  from 
up  the  territory,  eager  to  get  back  to  Sylvania,  and 
report  to  Mrs.  Hallard. 

271 


CHAPTER  XI 

"TI  rESTCOTT'S  state  of  mind,  miserable  as  it 
*  *  was,  would  have  been  more  unenviable  still 
had  he  known  that  Card  was  on  the  train  with  him 
during  the  journey  to  Bonesta.  The  lawyer  was 
hurrying  to  Sylvania  to  secure  another  interview 
with  Kate  Hallard  in  the  absence  of  her  champion. 
He  reasoned  that  she  could  not  yet  have  heard 
from  Gard,  whose  quest  in  the  north,  he  surmised, 
had  something  to  do  with  her  business. 

He  was  still  puzzled  to  understand  why  a  man 
like  Gard  should  have  prepared  such  a  statement  as 
was  contained  in  the  packet  which  he  had  found  on 
the  desert.  In  the  light  of  what  he  himself  had 
just  learned,  it  seemed  as  if  he  must  have  known 
that  it  was  unnecessary.  The  paper  bore  no  date, 
and  he  finally  concluded  that  it  must  have  been 
written  at  some  time  before  Gard  had  learned  of 
Jim  Texas'  confession.  Westcott  himself  had  not 
known  of  this  before  going  north  on  this  trip.  He 
had  been  willing  to  forget  the  whole  business  once 
272 


THE  WELL  IN  THE  DESERT 

he  was  sure  that  Barker  had  disappeared  forever. 
Now  he  was  in  a  white  rage  at  the  position  in  which 
he  found  himself. 

He  had  been  in  too  great  haste,  after  learning 
the  facts  of  Card's  innocence,  to  think  further  of 
the  mining  claim.  When  Mrs.  Hallard  and  Un- 
richt  saw  him  in  the  St.  Augustine  he  had  just 
come  in  from  the  north.  He  spent  no  time  in 
Tucson,  looking  up  records  which  he  took  for 
granted  Card  had  already  made  right.  He  was 
sure  that  the  latter's  first  act  upon  returning  to  civ- 
ilization would  be  to  put  his  own  affairs  into  secure 
shape.  Only  in  some  such  way  was  it  possible  for 
a  mind  like  Westcott's  to  understand  a  man's  will- 
ingly remaining  in  a  position  which  must  otherwise 
seem  to  him  perilous,  for  the  sake  of  seeing  right 
done  to  a  woman  like  Mrs.  Hallard.  He  realized, 
too,  with  a  horrible  sense  of  being  trapped,  that  he 
himself  was  in  Card's  power. 

How  that  power  would  be  used  he  felt  no  doubt. 
The  man  was  probably  only  making  sure  of  his 
ground.  He  would  have  his  case  clear  before  he 
struck,  and  no  one  knew,  better  than  Ashley  West- 
cott,  how  clear  that  case  could  be  made.  He  had 
reckoned  absolutely  upon  the  loss  of  that  deed,  and 
upon  Kate  Hallard's  helplessness  and  ignorance; 
and  the  stolen  property  now  stood  on  record  in  his 
own  name. 

273 


THE  WELL  IN  THE  DESERT 

The  sweat  started  upon  his  forehead  as  he  told 
over  in  his  mind  the  motives  that  would  inevitably 
impel  a  man  in  Card's  position  to  seek  revenge 
upon  him.  No  wonder  the  fellow  had  taken  this 
business  up.  No  wonder  he  had  not  been  tempted 
to  make  a  deal  with  him.  Westcott  flinched  in- 
wardly, as  he  remembered  his  own  fatuous  prop- 
osition that  morning  at  the  Palo  Verde.  How 
Card  must  have  been  laughing  at  him,  behind  that 
grave  face.  The  matter  stood  out  before  him  in 
the  fierce  light  of  his  own  hatred ;  he  could  conceive 
of  no  other  feeling  actuating  his  enemy. 

Any  way  he  looked  at  it,  the  man  was  bound  to 
be  meditating  his  ruin.  Through  the  whirl  of 
Westcott's  thoughts  ran  but  one  slender  thread  of 
hope.  If  he  could  see  Kate  Hallard  he  might 
effect  a  compromise  with  her.  When  last  he  saw 
her  he  had  been  sure  that  he  had  Card  in  his  power. 
He  had  boasted  to  her  that  he  meant  to  crush  the 
fellow;  to  show  her  what  a  helpless  creature  she 
had  trusted.  She  had  laughed  at  his  threats,  but 
there  had  been  anxiety  under  her  laughter.  He  had 
seen  that  as  he  departed,  exulting.  Perhaps  he 
could  work  that  line  with  her  again.  He  would 
see ;  he  must  see ! 

If  he  could  not  arrange  with  her  there  was 
nothing  for  him  to  do  but  to  run  for  it.  He  might 
be  able  to  realize  on  the  property  before  getting 
274 


THE  WELL  IN  THE  DESERT 

away;  a  cattleman  up  north  was  even  then  con- 
sidering its  purchase.  In  any  case,  Kate  Hallard 
failing  him,  he  must  get  out  of  Arizona ;  get  out  of 
the  country,  even,  if  Card's  hatred  still  pursued 
him.  To  stay,  after  this,  spelled  jail. 

At  the  word  Card's  face  came  up  before  him  as 
it  had  looked  that  night  in  Blue  Gulch,  and  the 
horror  of  it  set  him  shivering.  Remorse  was  no 
part  of  his  emotion;  he  felt  only  a  sense  of  im- 
potent regret  at  the  shattering  of  his  plans,  and  a 
blind  hatred  of  Card  as  the  cause  of  his  undoing. 
He  cursed  him  in  his  heart  as  he  sat  staring  out 
upon  the  desert  landscape  slipping  past  the  car 
window. 

Its  desolation  added  to  his  horror,  and  his  fury. 
It  was  a  hellish  place,  working  its  own  infernal 
way  with  men  whom  fate  forced  to  dwell  in  it ;  but 
he  had  worked,  and  planned,  and  striven  there ;  he 
had  seen  his  dear  ambition  coming  within  reach  of 
his  hand.  Now  he  saw  himself  hunted  like  a  jack- 
rabbit  from  the  scene  of  all  his  hopes  and  desires. 

And  there  was  Helen.  He  believed  that  he  had 
stood  a  chance  there.  And  he  had  meant,  once  he 
was  out  of  this  snarl,  to  live  straight.  With  her  to 
help  him  he  could  go  far.  Arizona  would  be  a 
state  some  day.  There  were  big  possibilities  ahead. 
He  writhed  in  his  seat  at  the  thought,  and  cursed 
Gabriel  Card  anew  for  plotting  his  downfall. 

275 


THE  WELL  IN  THE  DESERT 

The  horse  that  he  had  ridden  to  Bonesta  several 
days  before  had  been  sent  back  to  Sylvania;  so 
Westcott  went  up  to  the  outfitting  town  in  the  tri- 
weekly stage  which  was  waiting  at  the  train.  This 
fact  enabled  Card  the  better  to  keep  out  of  the 
lawyer's  sight.  His  own  horse  was  in  the  Bonesta 
stable. 

He  was  no  more  anxious  to  encounter  Westcott 
than  the  latter  was  to  meet  him.  He  had  seen  him 
at  the  Tucson  station  in  time  to  seek  another  car 
from  the  one  in  which  the  attorney  seated  himself, 
and  now  he  had  but  to  keep  out  of  view  until  the 
lumbering  stage  swung  up  the  road  with  his  foe  on 
board. 

Gard  had  found  his  man,  and  had  in  his  pocket 
Sawyer's  affidavit  to  having  taken  the  acknow- 
ledgment of  the  Hallard  deed.  He  had  learned, 
too,  that  this  deed  ante-dated  the  one  of  record  to 
Westcott's  client.  This  personage,  he  had  ascer- 
tained, was  a  mere  tool  of  the  attorney's.  The 
actual  holder  of  the  property  was  Westcott  him- 
self. 

He  was  greatly  troubled,  on  arriving  at  Syl- 
vania, to  find  that  Mrs.  Hallard  had  gone  away. 
He  tortured  his  mind  for  an  explanation  of  her 
sudden  journey.  He  was  afraid  that  she  had  been 
again  misled  by  Westcott.  If  the  lawyer  really 
had  found  that  lost  packet  there  was  no  predicting 

276 


THE  WELL  IN  THE  DESERT 

the  uses  to  which  he  might  put  it  in  making  repre- 
sentations to  Mrs.  Hallard. 

Sing  Fat  could  give  him  no  information  beyond 
the  fact  that  Mrs.  Hallard  had  ridden  out  to  the 
Palo  Verde,  returning  in  "one  velly  big  hully-up," 
to  prepare  for  a  journey  to  Prescott.  He  could  not 
tell  when  she  would  return. 

Card  pondered  the  matter  in  sorry  perplexity. 
He  could  not  fathom  the  mystery,  but  he  feared — 
everything.  He  dreaded  what  might  have  taken 
place  at  the  Palo  Verde.  What  had  taken  Mrs. 
Hallard  there  ?  What  had  Sandy  Larch  been  told  ? 
What  did  Miss  Anderson  believe  ? 

The  last  was  the  question  of  his  deepest  thought. 
He  was  not  fearful  for  himself,  of  anything  that 
might  come.  The  doubts  and  the  temptations  of 
the  situation  had  all  been  settled  in  his  mind.  He 
had  learned  stern  lessons  in  solitude,  and  he 
brought  them  sternly  to  bear  in  this  exigency.  This 
thing  had  been  given  to  him,  Gabriel  Gard,  to 
carry  through.  Whatever  might  come  to  him  as 
one  human  being  did  not  count.  It  was  the  life  of 
the  world  that  counted,  and  to  see  justice  done  was 
just  now,  for  him,  a  part  of  that  life.  If  payment 
seemed  to  fall  upon  him,  who  was  he,  that  he 
could  not  bear  his  burden?  Neither  his  courage 
nor  his  purpose  faltered  before  the  outlook. 

But  that  Helen  Anderson  should  believe  of  him 
277 


THE  WELL  IN  THE  DESERT 

the  things  he  was  sure  that  Westcott  would  try  to 
make  her  believe,  was  more  than  his  reason  told 
him  need  be  borne.  The  mastering  desire  of  his 
soul  at  this  moment  was  that  she  should  believe  in 
him ;  that  she  should  know  the  truth  from  his  own 
lips  before  she  judged  him.  The  vague  plan  that 
had  suggested  itself  to  him  on  the  way  up  now 
took  definite  shape.  He  resolved  to  ride  out  to 
the  Palo  Verde;  to  see  Helen  if  possible,  and  get 
her  to  listen  to  the  whole  story.  She  should  be- 
lieve him,  if  there  was  an}  power  in  truth  to  make 
its  impress  upon  a  true  nature. 

"She  is  true,"  he  told  himself,  recalling  her  clear, 
candid  eyes,  her  fine,  fearless  spirit.  "She  will 
believe  me.  She  must  believe  me.  Oh,  God,  help 
me  make  her  believe  me !  It  's  all  I  ask !" 

He  had  no  intention  of  putting  his  fate  to  fur- 
ther test.  When  he  should  be  free ;  able  to  hold  up 
his  head  without  shame  among  men;  then  the 
right  to  speak  would  be  his.  Then  he  would  lay 
his  life  at  her  feet.  It  was  hers.  But  now,  he 
would  have  given  his  last  drop  of  blood  just  to 
know  that  she  knew,  and  that  she  believed  him. 

He  left  Mrs.  Hallard's  papers,  securely  sealed, 
in  Sing  Fat's  care,  seeing  them  put  in  a  place  of 
safety  before  he  turned  away  to  where  he  had  put 
up  his  horse. 

The  animal  was  still  feeding;  for  himself  Card 

278 


THE  WELL  IN  THE  DESERT 

had  forgotten  the  need  of  food.  He  hesitated,  loth 
to  take  the  creature  out. 

"Coin'  far?"  the  stable  man  asked. 

"Out  to  the  Palo  Verde,"  was  the  reply. 

"Better  take  one  o'  our  broncs,  then,"  the  man 
jerked  a  thumb  in  the  direction  of  a  flea-bitten 
roan  standing  in  its  stall. 

"That  un  '11  take  you  out  there  all  right,"  he 
said,  "tho'  he  ain't  no  shucks  of  a  goer." 

"He  '11  do,"  and  the  roan  was  brought  out  and 
saddled.  A  man  who  had  slunk  from  the  stable 
when  Card  came  in  lingered  unseen  at  the  head  of 
the  alley  to  see  him  ride  away. 

"Gwan,"  he  jeered  in  drunken  exultation  as 
horse  and  rider  passed  up  the  street;  "go  it  while 
ye  can;  yer  time  's  a  comin'  my  fine,  pious  jail- 
bird. Here  's  where  yer  wings  is  goin'  to  be 
clipped  sure  's  my  name  's  Thad.  Broome !" 

The  cow-puncher  had  come  into  town  breathing 
out  wrath  against  Sandy  Larch,  with  whom  he  had 
had  words.  He  was  foregathering  with  certain 
chosen  companions,  and  had  already  succeeded  in 
getting  well  on  the  road  to  drunkenness.  He  was 
headed  for  Jim  Bracton's  with  his  friends  when 
the  quartette  met  Westcott,  fresh  from  an  effort  to 
pump  Sing  Fat  regarding  Mrs.  Hallard's  where- 
abouts. 

Sing  Fat  had  been  non-committal.  He  knew 
279 


THE  WELL  IN  THE  DESERT 

that  the  lawyer  was  not  in  the  good  graces  of  his 
mistress,  and  so,  being  a  Chinaman,  he  had  little 
that  was  definite  to  tell  him.  Westcott  was  in  a 
white  rage  when  he  was  hailed  by  Broome,  too 
drunk  now  to  be  discreet. 

He  ans\vered  the  cow-puncher's  surprised  greet- 
ing shortly,  but  Broome  was  not  to  be  put  off.  He 
was  in  a  condition  to  attach  importance  to  his  own 
personality,  and  he  followed  Westcott,  who  was 
walking  away  from  the  town,  too  furious  to  en- 
dure contact  with  humanity.  The  puncher's  com- 
panions trailed  after. 

Out  beyond  the  edge  of  the  settlement  the  lawyer 
turned,  enraged. 

"What  in  hell  are  you  following  me  for, 
Broome  ?"  he  snapped,  savagely. 

"Wanter  word  wi'  you,  Misher  Weshcott,"  the 
fellow  said,  thickly. 

"What  about  ?  Why  are  n't  you  on  the  range  ? 
What  are  you  hanging  around  here  for?"  The 
questions  followed  one  another  with  a  jerk. 

Broome  burst  into  a  tirade  of  profanity,  the 
burden  of  which  was  that  he  would  take  no  bossing 
from  Sandy  Larch.  He  had  defied  the  latter  and 
had  been  given  his  time. 

"So   you   got   yourself   fired,"   Westcott   com- 
mented in  a  slow  rage.     "You  're  an  even  bigger 
blasted  fool  than  I  thought  you  could  be." 
280 


THE  WELL  IN  THE  DESERT 

Broome  blustered,  drunkenly.  Did  Westcott 
think  he  was  going  to  stand  any  lip  from  Sandy 
Larch  when  he  had  a  fortune  in  sight? 

"Fortune— hell !"  Westcott's  fury  broke 
bounds. 

"What  you  Ve  got  in  sight,"  he  said,  hoarsely, 
"is  an  asylum  for  damned  fools;  or  else  a  hemp 
necktie  and  a  short  drop.  One  or  the  other  's  yours 
all  right." 

The  cow-puncher  stared,  stupidly. 

"Gwan,"  he  said,  "Whatcher  givin'  us?  Card 
ain't  made  no  drift;  he  's  just  now  gone  out  to  the 
Palo  Verde;  I  seen  'im." 

Westcott  was  startled. 

"What  has  he  gone  out  there  for?"  he  de- 
manded. 

"How  'n  hell  do  I  know,"  was  the  reply.  "When 
we  goin'  t'  land  'im  ?" 

"Shut  up !"  Westcott  almost  screamed  the  words 
in  the  intensity  of  his  nervous  pain.  "You  can't 
touch  Gard,  you  blasted  donkey,"  he  added ;  "he  's 
made  himself  solid  with  the  law.  He  's  pardoned 
all  right." 

"Pardoned !"  Broome's  jaw  dropped.  "Did  he 
bring  away  enough  fer  that  in  them  two  bags  ?"  he 
gasped. 

Westcott  made  no  reply  and  the  cow-puncher 
turned  to  his  fellows. 

281 


THE  WELL  IN  THE  DESERT 

"Now  wha'  d'  ye  think  o'  that?"  he  roared, 
"You  know  this  here  Card,  Jim.  He  's  that  dod- 
gasted  sawney  that  butted  in  when  you  was  teachin' 
old  Joe  Papago  the  things  he  most  needed  to  know 
that  night  up  to  the  'Happy  Family/  ' 

"I  guess  I  know  'im  all  right,  damn  'im," 
snarled  the  one  addressed.  "He  done  me  out  'n  a 
good  thing  that  time.  I  stood  to  win— 

"Done  ye!  Call  that  doin'  ye?"  Broome 
snarled.  "He  done  me  out  'n  more  'n  he  did  you. 
Thousands  o'  dollars  he  's  robbed  me  of." 

"Aw,  pull  'er  in  easy  Broome,"  interrupted  one 
of  the  others,  coming  close.  "You  never  had  a 
thousand  in  yer  life." 

"Ye  lie!  I  had  my  eyes  on  the  richest  vein  in 
Arizona,  an'  this  feller  lit  on  me  an'  nearly  killed 
me  when  he  found  I  'd  seen  it.  He  chased  me 
out 'nit!" 

"I  'd  pot  any  man  tried  that  on  me,"  the  other 
said.  "Where  in  tunk  was  yer  gun?" 

"Where  't  is  now,"  Broome  growled,  "an' 
that  's  none  o'  your  business.  I  '11  git  'im  yet. 
He  's  a  murderer  an*  a  thief,  an'  I  '11  git  'im  yet." 

"An'  hang  for  it."  This  man  spoke  for  the  first 
time.  "He  ain't  worth  it." 

"Not  on  your  life  would  I  hang  fer  't/'  was 
Broome's  reply.  "I  tell  ye  the  man  's  a  murderer 
an'  a  thief  anyhow ;  an'  as  fer  his  bein'  worth  it,  I 
282 


THE  WELL  IN  THE  DESERT 

tell  ye  that  claim  he  's  hanging  onto  's  got  a  mil- 
lion in  plain  sight." 

"An'  to  think  of  it/'  he  went  on,  dolorously, 
"that  I  had  my  two  hands  on  them  bags,  an'  hefted 
'em,  an'  saw  their  color." 

"Pity  you  did  n't  smell  of  them  while  you  were 
about  it,"  sneered  Westcott.  "It  's  about  all  the 
good  you  '11  ever  get  of  the  stuff." 

"Is  it,-eh"  Broome  turned  on  him  in  maudlin  rage. 

"It  's  all  I  '11  ever  git  with  any  help  o'  your'n," 
he  raged,  "but  I  kin  do  a  thing  er  two  yet,  off  'n 
my  own  bat.  By  God!  Just  you  lemme  git  my 
two  hands  on  the  feller  'n  I  '11  twist  his  windpipe 
good  'n'  plenty!" 

He  gasped  for  breath,  tearing  at  the  band  of  his 
shirt. 

"I  '11  kill  'im,"  he  swore.  "D'  ye  think  I  '11  let 
'im  live  when  he  's  took  the  bread  out  o'  my  mouth 
like  he  done?" 

Westcott  regarded  him  with  narrowed  eyes. 

"You  'd  be  a  blasted  fool  to  stand  it,"  he  said, 
speaking  very  low,  "any  set  of  men  are  fools  to 
let  another  man  ride  over  them ;  but  they  're  bigger 
fools  if  they  don't  keep  their  mouths  shut." 

"That 's  so,"  one  of  the  men  commented.    "You 
fellers  wanter  look  out.     This  here  Card  you  're 
talkin'  about  's  a  stranger  to  me,  an'  I  d'  know  all 
he  's  done,  but  such  talk  's  plumb  dangerous." 
283 


THE  WELL  IN  THE  DESERT 

He  shook  his  head  with  drunken  gravity. 

"Wha  'd  you  wanter  kill  'im  for?"  he  asked  of 
Broome. 

"I  tell  ye  he  's  a  damned  murderer,"  was  the 
reply.  "He  'd  oughter  be  killed." 

"Is  that  right?"  The  man  who  did  not  know 
Card  turned  to  Westcott  with  a  profoundly  judicial 
air. 

"Why  ain't  he  hung  then  ?"  he  went  on.  "How 
d'  you  know  he  's  guilty  ?" 

Westcott  hesitated,  considering.  He  did  not 
look  at  the  questioner. 

"I  saw  the  whole  story  written  out  in  his  own 
hand,"  he  finally  said,  with  a  curious  glitter  in  his 
half- veiled  eyes.  "I  've  just  been  up  north  trying 
to  have  him  arrested,"  he  continued.  "Broome 
here  knows  that;  but  I  found  the  matter  'd  been 
patched  up." 

"Hell !  That  ain't  no  ways  right."  The  speaker 
steadied  himself,  and  regarded  the  lawyer  severely. 

"They  ain't  no  justice  in  that,"  he  resumed. 
"Murder  's  murder;  an'  the  punishment  for  mur- 
der 's  hanging.  I  d'mand  t'  know  why  he  ain't 
hung?" 

"You  '11  have  to  answer  your  own  question,"  was 
the  quiet  reply.  "What  are  you  going  to  do  about 
that?" 

"I  know  what  I  'd  do  about  it,"  Broome  spoke 
284 


THE  WELL  IN  THE  DESERT 

this  time.  "I  'd  hang  'irri  myself,  quick  's  that," 
snapping  his  fingers,  "if  I  got  the  chance." 

"Lynching  's  gone  out  of  style,"  sneered  West- 
cott.  "We  're  law-abiding  in  Arizona  now." 

"Law  be  damned,"  Broome  blustered.  "Lynch- 
ing 's  too  good  fer  'im;  but  it  'd  serve,  I  guess." 

The  word  passed  from  one  to  another  of  the 
drunken  group.  The  men  looked  at  one  another, 
and  fell  into  a  confused  discussion. 

"Did  you  say  you  saw  that  there  confession  in 
his  own  handwrite  ?"  the  stranger  presently  turned 
to  ask  of  Westcott,  but  the  lawyer  had  already 
hurried  away. 

"Don't  you  worry  none  about  that,"  Broome 
answered  for  him,  with  an  oath.  "I  tell  ye,  Hickey, 
I  know  what  I  'm  talkin'  about.  The  man  's  an 
escaped  jail-bird  that  was  in  fer  murder.  He  's 
dodged  the  law,  but  hell!  he  ain't  dodged  Thad 
Broome  yet !" 

The  talk  went  on  among  the  men,  but  Westcott 
was  not  there  to  hear  it.  He  had  seen  to  it  that  he 
should  not  be,  and  was  well  on  his  way  back  to  town. 

He  had  not  put  the  idea  into  their  heads,  he  told 
himself.  Nor  was  it  likely  that  anything  would 
come  of  their  drunken  vaporings. 

But  if  anything  should—  His  heart  was  beating 
excitedly,  and  his  breath  came  quick  as  the  possi- 
bilities of  the  situation  hammered  at  his  brain. 

285 


THE  WELL  IN  THE  DESERT 

"Curse  the  fellow,"  he  muttered.  "The  very 
devil  himself  is  always  sending  him  my  way.  Well, 
whatever  happens  to  him  this  trip  he  's  brought  it 
upon  himself." 

He  walked  on,  his  thoughts  growing  more 
definite. 

"Nothing  can  be  proved  against  me,"  they  ran. 
"I  can't  be  supposed  to  know  what  a  lot  of  drunken 
punchers  are  likely  to  do.  The  fool  ought  to  have 
been  careful  how  he  interfered  with  them. 

"Still,  if  anything  should  happen,"  caution  sug- 
gested, "I  may  as  well  be  away  from  here." 

He  glanced  at  his  watch. 

"Too  late  for  the  afternoon  train,"  he  reflected. 
"But  there  's  the  mixed  freight  at  nine-thirty.  I 
might  ride  over  to  the  junction  and  get  Billy  Nor- 
ton to  stop  that  for  me.  I  '11  do  that.  Plenty  of 
time  after  supper.  Yes :  that  is  what  I  will  do." 

He  did  not  continue  his  walk,  but  sought  the 
little  hotel  and  shut  himself  into  his  room,  explain- 
ing to  the  friendly  proprietor  that  he  was  dead 
tired,  and  wanted  to  make  up  lost  sleep. 


286 


CHAPTER  XII 

O  ANDY  LARCH  had  driven  to  Bonesta  to  meet 
O  Mrs.  Hallard,  Unricht's  telephone  message 
having  reached  the  Palo  Verde  in  due  season.  The 
cowboys  were  all  out  on  the  range.  There  was 
no  one  about  the  corrals  when  Gard  reached  the 
rancho.  He  had  not  expected  that  anyone  would 
be,  but  the  place  seemed  curiously  quiet  and  de- 
serted. A  bunch  of  future  polo-ponies  in  one  en- 
closure were  the  only  creatures  in  sight  as  he  rode 
on  toward  the  casa.  These  nickered  to  his 
own  horse  and  the  sound  brought  Wing  Chang  to 
the  door  of  his  adobe  kitchen.  The  Chinaman's 
face  wrinkled  in  a  genial  smile  as  he  recognized 
Gard.  The  latter  waved  a  hand  to  him  and  turned 
toward  the  horse- rail ;  for  he  had  caught  sight  of  a 
slender  figure  under  the  cottonwoods. 

She  rose  from  the  low  chair  in  which  she  had 
been  sitting,  reading,  and  awaited  his  coming,  there 
beneath  the  trees.  She  was  dressed,  as  usual,  in 
white — a  soft,  clinging  serge  to-day,  for  the 

287 


THE  WELL  IN  THE  DESERT 

December  afternoons  were  growing  cool— and  she 
stood,  serene  and  quiet,  smiling  welcome  as  he  ap- 
proached, but  the  eyes  veiled  by  her  long  lashes 
were  like  stars.  Card's  heart  cried  out  to  her  as  he 
took  the  slim  little  hand  she  held  out  to  him  in 
greeting.  He  felt  like  a  man  reprieved.  There 
was  no  aversion  in  her  look  or  manner.  Westcott 
could  not  yet  have  wholly  blackened  his  good  name 
before  her. 

"So  you  have  come  back  to  find  everybody 
gone,"  Helen  said,  offering  him  the  long  chair  he 
remembered  so  well.  "This  seems  to  belong  to 
you." 

He  declined  it — his  errand  was  not  one  that  in- 
vited the  soul  to  ease — and  took,  instead,  a  camp- 
stool  near  the  little  garden  table.  Patsy,  who  had 
been  lying  beneath  it,  came  to  greet  the  guest,  with 
wagging  recognition. 

"There  's  nobody  gone  that  I  came  to  see,"  Card 
answered  her  remark  with  a  directness  that  brought 
the  long  lashes  still  further  over  those  starry  eyes. 
Helen  had  seen  him  coming  far  on  the  desert ;  had 
recognized  him  with  a  quick,  exultant  leap  of  the 
heart,  and  had  schooled  herself  to  serenity,  stilling 
the  tumult  within  long  ere  he  stood  before  her. 

Nevertheless,  she  was  exquisitely  aware  of  his 
presence;  aware  too,  that  the  secret  fear  of  her 
heart,  lest  memory  might  after  all  have  played  her 
288 


THE  WELL  IN  THE  DESERT 

false  with  reference  to  this  man,  was  dispelled. 
This  was  indeed  the  Gard  of  her  musings.  Her 
veiled  eyes  took  swift  woman-cognizance  of  him; 
of  the  strength  and  poise  of  his  spare,  supple 
frame;  the  clean  wholesomeness  of  his  rugged 
good  looks. 

Almost  before  he  spoke,  however,  she  was  con- 
scious that  something  vaguely  portentous  pulsed 
beneath  the  quiet  of  his  manner ;  something  which 
her  own  mood  failed  of  grasping.  He  was  stirred 
to  the  depths  by  something  not  wholly  of  the  pres- 
ent moment.  The  joyous  light  of  that  first  instant 
of  meeting  had  faded  from  his  face,  and  a  shadowy 
trouble  lurked  deep  within  his  eyes.  She  raised 
her  own  to  meet  it  with  the  steady,  level  glance  he 
remembered  as  peculiarly  her  own,  seeking  to  an- 
swer the  need  of  his  soul. 

Card's  courage  was  near  to  failing.  It  came 
home  to  him  with  terrible  force  as  he  met  her  pure 
glance,  what  a  monstrous  thing  this  was  that  he 
had  brought  to  lay  before  her  sweet,  untroubled 
consciousness.  He  would  have  given  his  life  to 
keep  sorrow  from  her;  yet  he  was  hungering  this 
moment  to  tell  her  his  own. 

But  he  could  not  let  her  hear  it  from  other  lips 

than  his,  and  he  believed  that  she  must  inevitably 

hear  the  tale  very  soon.     In  a  flash  he  saw,  too, 

that  if  she  but  believed  him  that  belief  would  rob 

19  289 


THE  WELL  IN  THE  DESERT 

the  knowledge  of  its  malignant  power.  The 
friendliness  of  her  eyes  calmed  the  storm  in  his 
spirit.  In  that  instant  he  loved  her  supremely ;  but 
for  the  moment  she  was  more  the  friend  to  whose 
soul  he  longed  to  lay  bare  his  own,  than  the  woman 
he  loved,  whose  faith  he  longed  to  feel  as- 
surance of. 

He  had  no  knowledge  of  the  arts  of  circumlocu- 
tion. He  drew  from  his  pocket  a  folded  paper 
and  began  his  story  where,  in  his  thought,  he  had 
meant  to  end  it. 

"I  have  brought  you  something  to  keep  for  me," 
he  said,  opening  out  the  paper  and  handing  it  to 
her. 

She  looked  it  over  wonderingly.  There  was  a 
rough  sketch  of  a  mountain-range,  with  one  peak 
indicated  by  a  little  cross.  At  one  side  was  a  little 
map,  with  directions  and  distances  plainly  set  out, 
and  half  a  page  of  minute  instructions  as  to  routes 
and  trails.  Card's  training  in  the  surveyor's  gang 
had  served  him  in  good  stead  here. 

"What  is  it,  precisely  ?"  the  girl  asked ;  for  com- 
plete as  it  seemed,  there  was  no  word  to  indicate 
just  what  it  was  intended  to  show. 

"That  's  what  I  want  to  tell  you,"  was  his  an- 
swer. "It  was  n't  best  to  put  too  much  on  the 
paper.  I  got  taught  that  the  other  day;  but  what 
is  set  down  there  would  guide  you  straight  to  my 
gold-mine  if  ever  you  wanted  to  go." 
290 


THE  WELL  IN  THE  DESERT 

She  flushed,  slightly. 

"Why  should  I  ever  want  to  go  ?"  she  asked,  on 
the  defensive  against  his  eyes.  "Don't  prospectors 
generally  consider  it  imprudent  to  show  such 
things  as  this  ?" 

"Awfully  imprudent.  You  must  put  it  away 
where  it  will  be  very  safe,  and  keep  it  for  me." 

"But  why  do  you  wish  me  to  keep  it?  I  think 
you  are  rash."  Helen  held  the  paper  toward  him, 
but  he  put  her  hand  back,  pleadingly. 

"Please  keep  it  for  me/'  he  urged;  "I— I  wish 
it  above  all  things.  I  am  afraid — I  expect  to  have 
to  go  away  for  a  time,  to  a  place  where  /  could  not 
keep  it— for  a  long  time,  perhaps." 

"Where  do  you  expect  to  go  ?"  Helen  strove  to 
keep  out  of  her  voice  the  dismay  that  was  in  her 
heart. 

"There  was  a  boy,  once,"  he  said,  apparently  not 
hearing  her  question.  "He  was  n't  a  bad  boy  as 
boys  go,  but  you  could  n't  have  called  him  a  good 
boy,  either.  And  he  was  n't  smart,  and  he  was  n't 
stupid."  Gard  looked  out  across  the  desert,  con- 
sidering. 

"This  boy  went  away  from  home  the  way  boys 
do.  He  thought  it  was  slow  on  the  farm  back  in 
Iowa;  and  he  drifted  out  to  Arizona  .  .  ." 

He  paused.    He  found  the  story  even  harder  to 
tell  than  he  had  expected.     Helen,  watching  him 
intently,  leaned  toward  him  ever  so  slightly. 
291 


THE  WELL  IN  THE  DESERT 

"I  want  to  hear  about  the  boy,"  she  said,  softly, 
and  Card  went  on,  without  looking  at  her. 

"He  got  out  to  Arizona  and  went  prospecting. 
He  found  a  claim,  and  had  it  jumped.  He  got 
some  dust  together,  and  lost  it.  He  lost  a  good 
many  things;  his  real  name,  for  one  thing,  and 
a  lot  of  other  things  it  does  boys  good  to  keep.  He 
was  getting  into  bad  ways ;  getting  mighty  worth- 
less; and  then  he  got  into  trouble." 

Card's  face  was  pale  under  its  tan,  'and  a  white 
dint  showed  in  either  nostril.  Helen  was  studying 
the  sketch  of  the  mountains. 

"A  man  was  killed—" 

The  girl  gave  a  little  gasp,  and  Gard  turned  to 
her  quickly. 

"The  boy  did  n't  do  it,"  he  cried.  "Before 
Heaven !  he  had  n't  anything  to  do  with  it.  Miss 
Anderson—"  He  bent  toward  her,  eagerly. 
"Can't  you  believe — no  matter  what  comes  up— 
won't  you — oh,  you  must  believe  that  the  boy 
had  n't  anything  to  do  with  it !" 

Her  eyes  were  on  his  face,  searching  it  as  though 
she  would  read  his  hidden  thoughts. 

"I  can  believe  that,"  she  said  at  last,  "if  you  say 
it  is  true." 

He  drew  a  deep,  tremulous  breath. 

"Tell  me  exactly  what  happened,"  Helen  urged, 
and  the  way  opened,  he  went  on  with  the  whole 
292 


THE  WELL  IN  THE  DESERT 

pitiful,  sordid  story,  the  girl  listening,  never 
flinching,  though  her  very  lips  grew  white  when 
he  told  her  what  his  sentence  had  been. 

He  told  her  of  his  escape,  but  omitted  mention 
of  his  visit  to  Blue  Gulch.  He  did  not  bring  West- 
cott's name  in  at  all,  or  dwell  upon  the  treachery 
he  had  met  with.  He  told  of  finding  Mrs.  Hal- 
lard's  deed;  of  his  search  for  her,  and  of  the 
trouble  he  had  found  her  in,  and  Helen's  heart 
warmed  toward  him  because  of  what  he  still  did 
not  say ;  for  she  recognized  Westcott's  share  in  this 
matter.  He  came  at  last  to  the  lost  packet,  and 
the  danger  that  he  was  in  if  anyone  found  it. 

"I  think  somebody  has  it,"  he  said,  "and  that 
somebody  will  be  getting  after  me.  I  am  going  to 
try  to  move  first;  but  may  be  I  sha'  n't  be  able  to." 

"Do  you  think  it  was  Mr.  Westcott  who  found 
those  papers?"  Helen  asked,  suddenly,  and  Card 
started. 

"Did  he  say  anything  to  you?"  he  demanded. 
"What  did  he  tell  you?" 

She  drew  herself  up,  proudly. 

"I  am  not  in  Mr.  Westcott's  confidence,"  she 
said.  "He  has  never  spoken  to  me  on  the  subject." 

"Sandy  and  I,  we  do  think  that,"  Card  admitted. 
"He,  Mr.  Westcott,  ain't  a  friend  of  mine,"  he 
added,  "and  if  he  did  find  them  I  'm  sure  to  hear 
from  him  before  long." 

293 


THE  WELL  IN  THE  DESERT 

Helen  pondered  his  words.  She  knew,  in 
various  ways,  that  Westcott  was  not  friendly  to 
this  man.  She  began  now  to  understand  why, 
and  she  realized  that  the  attorney  could  be  a 
venomous  foe. 

"Any  one  of  the  others  would  have  handed  the 
papers  over  to  Sandy,  would  they  not?"  she  asked, 
and  before  Gard  could  reply  turned  to  answer 
Jacinta,  who  was  calling  anxiously  from  the  house. 

"Jacinta  thinks  it  's  getting  too  cool  out  here," 
she  explained,  laughingly.  "It  troubles  her  if  she 
thinks  I  am  running  risks.  Shall  we  go  into  the 
house?" 

The  afternoon  was  waning.     Gard  hesitated. 

"I  must  be  getting  back,"  he  said,  following 
her,  "but  I  'd  like  to  explain  that  diagram  to  you. 
I  want  you  to  have  it  in  case  ...  if  anything 
should  happen,  I— want  it  to  be  yours.  You  get 
your  father  to  have  some  work  done  on  it,  and 
file  the  claim  right  for  you.  My  filing — is  n't 
legal." 

The  words  came  hard,  and  the  color  mounted  to 
his  forehead.  The  girl's  hands  were  trembling. 
Outside  the  sound  of  men's  voices  came  vaguely 
on  the  afternoon  stillness. 

"Is  it  as  late  as  that?"  Helen  asked,  surprised. 
"Are  the  men  getting  back  ?" 

Glancing  out  of  the  window  they  saw  Wing 
294 


THE  WELL  IN  THE  DESERT 

Chang  coming  from  the  kitchen  to  the  house. 
Near  the  kitchen  door  a  man  on  horseback  was 
waiting. 

"Mistlee  Glad!"  Chang's  yellow  visage  wore  a 
startled  look  as  he  appeared  in  the  doorway  of  the 
big  living  room. 

"Man  outside,"  he  said,  addressing  Card. 
"Four,  fi'  men;  holler;  swear;  say  you  come  out. 
Say  you  gotta  come  out." 

The  man  by  the  kitchen  door  now  rode  forward. 

"Hey,  you,  Misher  Barker,  Card,  whatever  you 
call  yourself,"  he  yelled  thickly,  "come  out  'n 
that  in  th'  name  o'  law  o'  Arizona!" 

"Oh!"  Helen  cried,  "what  does  he  want?" 

Card  turned  to  her  with  agony  in  his  face. 

"It  's — what — we — thought — might  happen,  I 
guess,"  he  said. 

"Has— has  someone  come  to  take  you?  Don't 
go!  Don't  let  them  take  you!  Oh,  surely  there  is 
some  other  way!"  The  girl's  voice  was  full  of 
horror.  "Oh!"  she  moaned,  "if  only  my  father 
were  here!  Or  Sandy!"  She  looked  at  him  with 
eyes  whose  revelation  almost  broke  the  man 
down. 

"Be  you  comin',  in  there?"  the  thick  voice  out- 
side sounded  nearer.  "They  Jsh  plenty  of  ush  to 
take  you,"  it  went  on.  "Y'  ain't  goin'  to  hide  in 
there  along  o'  no  girl,  Misher  murderer! — We  '11 

295 


THE  WELL  IN  THE  DESERT 
take  you  both  'f  you  don't  come  out  'n  be  quick 

'bout  it  r 

Card  caught  the  words  and  his  face  grew  sud- 
denly stern.  He  opened  the  door  and  stepped 
outside.  The  man  on  horseback  swerved,  at  sight 
of  him,  and  galloped  back  a  little  distance  to  where 
his  fellows  had  come  up.  Gard  could  still  distin- 
guish them  all  in  the  increasing  dusk. 

"Come  out  here  you  damned  murderer!" 

It  was  Broome's  voice,  malignant  and  thick. 

"You  're  goin'  git  what  's  comin'  to  you  this 
time,"  he  added,  tauntingly. 

There  was  no  mistaking  the  menace  of  the 
group;  Gard  realized,  as  he  surveyed  it,  that  this 
was  no  posse,  but  a  band  of  drunken  cowboys  ripe 
for  any  mischief.  At  all  hazards,  he  must  keep 
them  from  the  house. 

"Ride  the  murderer  down!"  someone  roared, 
drunkenly.  But  none  of  the  men  moved  nearer  to 
attack  the  motionless  figure  on  the  door  stone. 

Gard  was  thinking  fast,  and  the  burden  of  his 
thought  was  the  girl  shivering  on  the  other  side  of 
the  door.  He  must  get  these  men  away.  She 
must  not  know. 

Deliberately  he  stepped  back  into  the  room.    As 

the  door  closed  behind  him  a  bullet  buried  itself  in 

the  upper  panel  with  a  savage  "ping!"  amid  a 

chorus  of  savage  yells.    Helen  was  at  the  window, 

296 


THE  WELL  IN  THE  DESERT 

ears  and  eyes  strained  to  the  scene  without.  She 
came  toward  him,  swiftly. 

"You  must  not  go  out  there !"  she  cried.  "Those 
men  are  not  officers ;  they  mean  harm !" 

Her  hand  touched  his  arm  lightly  in  terrified 
appeal.  The  white  womanliness  of  her  upturned 
face  made  his  heart  ache  with  tenderness.  His 
soul  thrilled  to  a  trembling  sense  of  the  sweet 
possibilities  of  life.  Then  the  instinct  of  the  pro- 
tector awoke. 

"I  must  go,"  he  said,  speaking  low  and  fast.  "I 
must  go  now;  I  must  meet  these  men  and— and 
have  it  out  with  them.  It  is  the  only  way.  But 
I  'm  coming  back.  Don't  you  worry.  I  'm  com- 
ing back  clear  and  clean — " 

"Don't  go !"  she  whispered  in  terror ;  for  he  was 
moving  toward  a  long  French  window  that  opened 
toward  the  cottonwoods. 

"I  must !"  His  voice  was  tense  with  pain.  Out- 
side, he  knew,  death  lurked  for  him— just  when 
life  had  grown  so  precious!  But  more  precious 
still  was  this  slim,  white  girl.  For  her  sake  he 
must  draw  the  evil  crew  away  from  the  casa.  She 
must  not  know! 

"Kick  in  the  door !  The  patron  's  away !  The 
coward  's  hiding  there  with — yah!" 

A  fleeing  figure  burst  from  the  shelter  of  the 
cottonwoods,  Card's  horse  still  stood  at  the  rail, 
297 


THE  WELL  IN  THE  DESERT 

the  bridle-reins  on  the  ground.  The  drunken 
horsemen  turned  their  own  mounts  and  blundered 
confusedly  against  one  another  as  their  quarry, 
with  a  defiant  shout  that  left  them  no  doubt  as  to 
his  identity,  threw  himself  upon  his  horse  and 
dashed  away  into  the  gloom.  In  an  instant  they 
rallied  from  their  confusion,  and  wheeling,  were 
after  him. 

Gard  made  for  the  great  rancho  gate.  He  knew 
the  horse  he  bestrode ;  knew  that  it  was  not  in  the 
mongrel  brute's  poor  power  to  carry  him  far,  at 
any  speed;  but  at  least  he  had  a  start,  and  was 
leading  his  pursuers  away  from  the  Palo  Verde. 

"Head  'im  off  there!" 

"Shoot  him!" 

"Damn  it!  Don't  shoot!  Catch  the  damned 
sneaking  dog  an*  we  '11  string  'im  up!"  It  was 
Broome's  voice. 

The  words  were  borne  to  Wing  Chang's  horri- 
fied ears  and  he  raised  his  own  high,  falsetto  tones, 
in  a  cry  of  warning  to  Gard.  Helen,  hovering 
beside  the  door,  heard  also,  and  rushed  out. 

"Chang!  Chang!"  she  called,  gathering  her 
skirts  as  she  made  for  the  corrals ;  "come  and  help 
me  saddle  Dickens!" 

She  seized  him  by  the  arm  and  literally  pushed 
him  before  her.     "Quick!"  she  cried.  "You  catch 
the  horse.    I  '11  get  the  saddle." 
298 


THE  WELL  IN  THE  DESERT 

She  must  get  help.  She  meant  to  ride  out  and 
meet  the  men  who  must  soon  be  returning  from 
the  range.  She  was  coming  from  a  shed,  bearing 
saddle  and  bridle,  when  Sandy  Larch  and  Mrs. 
Hallard  drove  through  the  great  gate.  Wing 
Chang  rushed  toward  them,  shrieking. 

"Slandy!  Slandy  man!"  he  wailed,  forgetful 
of  the  discipline  the  foreman  was  wont  to  enforce 
in  the  matter  of  his  name.  "You  savee  him! 
Makee  dlam  hully  up !  Savee  him !" 

"What  's  eatin'  you?"  Sandy  roared,  struggling 
with  his  startled  horses.  "What  's  the  matter? 
Talk  straight  you  fool  heathen !  Save  who  ?" 

"MistleeGlad!    They  killee  him !    Go!    Go!" 

Wing  Chang's  hands  beat  the  air  as  though  he 
could  thus  impel  the  listener  forward.  Helen  now 
ran  up  and  Mrs.  Hallard  caught  her  hand,  leaning 
forward  eagerly. 

"What  is  it?"  she  cried,  and  the  girl  explained, 
in  quick,  excited  sentences. 

"We  must  get  out  there  quick,"  she  said.  She 
turned  with  a  glad  cry :  in  their  preoccupation  they 
had  not  heard  the  cowboys,  who  came  galloping  in 
for  supper,  singing  as  they  rode. 

Sandy  Larch  now  comprehended  the  situation 
sufficiently  to  act.     He  gave  a  few  quick  orders, 
and  in  a  moment  half  a  dozen  of  the  men  had 
faced  about  and  were  riding  over  the  desert. 
299 


THE  WELL  IN  THE  DESERT 

"Round  up  anything  you  see,"  the  foreman 
shouted  after  them. 

"I  '11  be  with  you  in  a  jerk." 

He  meant  to  leave  Helen  and  Mrs.  Hallard  at 
the  casa,  but  they  refused  to  listen  to  such  a 
plan.  Helen  sprang  into  the  buckboard,  and  as  the 
last  horseman  swept  out  at  the  gate  the  sweating 
team  was  in  pursuit. 

Four  of  the  men  rode  out  upon  the  plain.  Two, 
of  whom  Manuel  was  one,  kept  to  the  road,  and 
after  these  Sandy  lashed  his  horses.  He  came  up 
with  them  a  mile  beyond  the  gate.  Manuel  was  off 
his  bronco,  studying  some  tracks  that  just  here 
turned  abruptly  from  the  way. 

"They  must  have  turned  off  here,"  Sandy  said, 
springing  out  and  straining  his  eyes  to  make  out 
the  hoof-prints  in  the  baffling  gloom.  "Card  's  got 
a  poor  horse.  They  headed  him  off." 

"Oh !"  Helen  cried,  wringing  her  hands.  "Why 
did  n't  he  ride  back  to  the  rancho?" 

"Card  would  n't  do  that,  with  you  alone  there," 
answered  Sandy.  "But  oh,  Lord!  Why  did  n't 
some  of  us  turn  up  sooner?" 

Sago  Irish,  who  had  ridden  out  upon  the  plain, 
while  Manuel  studied  the  hoof-prints,  now  came 
back. 

"Did  you  pick  up  the  trail?"  the  foreman  de- 
manded, sharply. 

300 


THE  WELL  IN  THE  DESERT 

The  cowboy  shook  his  head. 

"Sand  's  too  hard,"  he  said,  sorrowfully,  "an' 
it  's  gettin'  too  dark." 

Sandy's  eyes  searched  the  dusky  landscape.  He 
was 'breathing  hard. 

"Cannot  we  do  something/'  Helen  pleaded,  in  a 
voice  of  agony. 

"If  they  catch  the  sefior — "  Manuel  spoke  very 
low,  but  the  women's  straining  ears  caught  the 
words — "they  will  ride  off  where  is  the  little  west 
fork.  There  they  find—" 

A  word  from  the  foreman  hushed  his  speech. 
Sandy  turned  his  horses  and  in  an  instant  they 
were  flying  in  the  direction  Manuel  had  indicated. 
For  the  first  time  Kate  Hallard's  nerve  was 
shaken. 

"Oh,  my  God!"  she  muttered,  "Manuel  meant 
they  'd  find  trees!" 

As  she  spoke  a  revolver  shot  rang  out  distantly, 
upon  the  air,  and  with  a  wild  yell  the  two  cow- 
boys dashed  off,  leaving  those  in  the  buckboard  to 
follow. 


301 


CHAPTER  XIII 

QO  this  was  to  be  the  end ! 

O  Card,  securely  roped,  stood  with  his  back 
against  a  cottonwood  tree,  looking  at  his  captors. 
There  was  no  mistaking  their  condition,  and  they 
left  him  in  no  doubt  as  to  their  intentions. 

He  had  not  expected  this.  Re-arrest ;  re-impris- 
onment: these  had  presented  themselves  to  his 
mind  as  possibilities;  he  had  not  looked  to  win 
justice  and  reinstatement  without  a  struggle,  but 
this — surely  no  sane  mind  could  have  foreseen  it 
as  a  possibility. 

The  quick  dusk  of  mid-December  had  fallen, 
but  one  of  the  men  was  provided  with  a  stock- 
lantern.  This  had  been  lighted,  and  threw  a 
miserable  glare  upon  the  sodden  faces  of  the  men 
who  had  him  in  their  power.  He  glanced  from 
one  to  the  other,  finding  ground  for  hope  in  none. 

It  was  Broome  who  had  captured  him.     The 
cowboy  had  secured  the  loan  of  a  fellow  puncher's 
302 


THE  WELL  IN  THE  DESERT 

horse,  standing  at  the  rail  before  Jim  Bracton's 
saloon.  It  was  a  good  horse,  more  than  a  match 
for  the  indifferent  beast  Gard  rode.  There  had 
been  a  mad  race  across  the  desert,  a  realizing  sense 
that  the  danger  was  real  and  imminent,  and  Gard 
was  in  the  act  of  drawing  his  revolver  when  the 
rope  that  Broome  flung  settled  over  his  shoulders, 
and  pinned  his  arms  down. 

"Now  you  know  how  it  feels,  damn  you!" 
Broome  said,  when  the  crowd  had  their  captive 
bound  and  again  in  saddle. 

"But  you  don't  git  no  blindfold,"  he  sneered. 
"You  're  goin'  to  see  all  that  's  a'comin'  to  you, 
good  'n'  plain."  Broome's  face  was  thrust  into 
his,  drunken,  distorted,  malignant. 

"Now  my  fine  Mister  Barker-Gard,"  the  thick 
voice  snarled,  "it  's  prayers  fer  your'n.  You  've 
killed  your  last  man,  you  sneakin'  coyote  you. 
You  '11  swing  in  jest  about  two  minutes." 

There  was  a  growl  of  assent  from  two  of  the 
others,  and  Gard  recognized  them  as  the  same  two 
ruffians  that  were  fleecing  Papago  Joe  when  he 
had  quietly  but  effectively  stopped  their  game. 
The  fourth  man  was  a  stranger  to  him.  It  was 
this  one  who  carried  the  lantern,  and  he  now  held 
it  unsteadily  on  high,  surveying  the  prisoner  with 
drunken  gravity. 

"Tell    ye    what,"    he    announced    to    Broome, 

303 


THE  WELL  IN  THE  DESERT 

"Thish  'ere  thing  's  gotter  be  done  right.  Thish 
'a  free  'n  glorioush  country.  We  don't  hang  no 
man  'thout  'n  he  gits  a  fair  trial." 

"Trial  be  damned!"  Broome  roared.  "Don't 
you  go  bein'  no  fool  Sam  Hickey.  This  feller  's 
bin  tried  an'  found  guilty  long  of  a  real  judge  'n 
jury,  already." 

Hickey  turned  upon  him  with  inebriate  severity. 

"If  you  wa'n't  so  dangnation  drunk,  Broome," 
he  said,  "I  'd  swat  ye  fer  that  remark.  But  y' 
ain't  responsible  now;  that  's  whatch  y'  ain't; 
Thish  'ere  thing  's  gotter  be  done  decent,  I  tell 
you.  We  ain't  no  murderers.  We  'sh  populash  o' 
Arizona,  seein'  justice  done;  an'  damn  you,  we  're 
goin'  to  see  it." 

"You  bet  we  be !"  interjected  one  of  -the  others. 
"An'  quick !  This  feller  's  had  his  trial." 

"Not  s'  fast,  Hank."  Hickey  swung  the  lan- 
tern perilously. 

"There  'sh  a  judge,  thash  me;  an'  there  'sh 
jury,  thash  gotter  be  you  fellers.  There — now. 
Thash  all  fixed." 

Oh,  God!  Was  it  really  to  end  in  this  tragic 
farce?  Card  pondered  it  with  a  sick  heart.  If  it 
was,  why  could  he  not  have  died  in  the  storm,  with 
Arnold,  two  years  ago? 

He  realized  the  futility  of  any  appeal  to  the 
creatures  before  him.  They  were  drunk;  irre- 

3°4 


THE  WELL  IN  THE  DESERT 

sponsible  as  dogs  at  play,  and  they  held  his  life  in 
their  hands.  His  life:  with  all  its  new  hope,  and 
love,  and  aspiration!  Moreover,  three  of  them 
hated  him.  He  owed  even  these  few  more  mo- 
ments of  breath  to  the  maudlin  vagary  of  the  one 
who  did  not  know  him. 

"Prish'ner  at  the  bar,"  Hickey  was  mumbling, 
"You  are  accusht  o'  bein'  convicted  o'  the  murder 
o' — Who  'n  hell  was  it  he  murdered,  Broome?" 

He  turned  to  Broome  with  an  effort  at  dignity 
that  nearly  flung  the  lantern  in  the  latter's  face. 
Broome  dodged  it,  with  an  oath. 

"Dan  Lundy,  you  slitherin'  fool,"  he  snarled, 
"Git  ahead  with  your  lingo,  or  we  '11  swing  you 
when  he  's  done  fer." 

Hickey  ignored  the  threat. 

"Well,  prish'ner  at  the  bar,  guilty  er  not 
guilty?" 

"Not  guilty!  I  never  touched  Lundy,"  Card 
said,  earnestly.  "I  found  him  dead  in  his  shack, 
and  they  came  in  just  as  I  was  trying  to  lift  him 
tap." 

"Corsh :  corsh :  very  proper  to  pleade  'not 
guilty'.  Reg'ler  thing — we  'd  a'  hung  ye  anyway 
if  yer  had  n't —  fer  'n  example !  As  'tish,  we  've  gi'n 
you  fair  tri'l.  Be  there  anything  you  wanter  say, 
before  thish  court  perceeds  t'  ex'cute  sentensh?" 

Card's  soul  was  in  revolt. 

305 


THE  WELL  IN  THE  DESERT 

"Hickey,"  he  said,  speaking  very  slowly  and  dis- 
tinctly, "This  is  murder  you  men  are  doing.  You 
'11  know  it  when  you  are  sober." 

As  the  lantern  cast  its  light  upon  Hickey's  face 
it  seemed  to  Card  that  he  looked  startled.  He 
realized,  with  a  sick  feeling  of  helplessness  that 
the  fellow's  participation  in  this  deed  was  due 
solely  to  his  condition.  He  even  felt  a  sort  of 
pity  for  the  man  when  to-morrow's  awakening 
should  bring  the  knowledge  of  what  he  had  done. 
If  he  could  but  reach  the  real  man  buried  in  the 
addled  brain. 

"I  did  not  kill  Dan  Lundy,"  he  insisted,  still 
addressing  Hickey;  "You  will  know  that  some 
day.  Killing  me  to-night  will  not  be  the  end  of  it. 
Death  ain't  such  an  awful  thing  that  a  man  's  got 
to  be  afraid  of  it,  beyond  a  certain  point.  We  've 
all  got  to  die  some  time;  so  it  stands  to  reason  it 
can't  be  such  a  bad  thing  as  we  think.  But  if  I 
do  die  to-night,  you  '11  be  alive  yet,  to-morrow 
morning,  Hickey,  and  what  do  you  think  you  '11  do 
about  it  then?" 

Hickey  was  staring  at  him,  his  jaw  loosened, 
the  lantern  hanging  in  a  listless  hand. 

"Aw,  shut  up,"  interrupted  Broome.  "You  've 
said  all  you  got  any  call  to  say.  We  know  there  's 
bin  a  mistake  made,  n'  we  're  goin'  to  fix  it  up 
right  here.  You  savez?" 

306 


THE  WELL  IN  THE  DESERT 

Card  ignored  him,  still  looking  at  Hickey. 

"Know  Mrs.  Hallard?"  he  asked,  with  the  quiet 
of  desperation.  Since  by  no  endurable  possibility 
could  he  send  a  message  where,  alone,  he  longed 
to,  he  must  at  least  get  one  word  to  Kate  Hallard. 

"Yesh;"  was  Hickey's  reply.  "Know  Missish 
Hallard.  Mighty  fine  lady." 

"Will  you  tell  Mrs.  Hallard,"  he  cast  about  for 
words  that  should  guide  Mrs.  Hallard  without  en- 
lightening these  ruffians.  "Try  to  remember  this, 
please.  Tell  Mrs.  Hallard  that  Sawyer  's  all  right. 
Tell  her  not  to  give  in  to  anybody.  Anybody,  I  say. 
Tell  her  not  to  be  afraid.  Will  you  remember?" 

Hickey  carried  his  lantern  a  little  distance  away 
and  set  it  down  at  the  foot  of  a  tree. 

"I  '11  tell  'er" ;  he  said,  gravely.  "Hate  ter  hang 
a  frien'  o'  Missish  Hallard,"  he  added,  "just 
plum  hate  ter  do  't;  but  you  see  yourself  how 
'tish;  law  's  gotter  take  its  course;  so  we  gotter 
hang  you." 

"Where  's  your  rope?"  one  of  the  men  now  de- 
manded, and  it  was  developed  that  the  only  rope 
in  the  company  was  the  horse-hair  riata  with 
which  Card  was  bound. 

"Take  it  off  n'  hang  'im  with  that,"  Hickey 
ordered,  and  three  men  laid  hold  of  their  victim, 
while  Broome  proceeded,  savagely,  to  loosen  his 
bonds.  A  wild  hope  sprang  up  in  Card's  heart. 

307 


THE  WELL  IN  THE  DESERT 

It  seemed  as  if  Broome  would  never  get  done 
fumbling  with  the  rope,  but  at  last  it  fell  away 
from  his  feet.  His  arms  were  already  untied,  but 
three  men  held  them. 

With  a  quick  wrench  he  shook  one  free  and 
planted  a  blow  in  Broome's  face.  The  fellow 
went  down,  heavily,  and  Card  fell  upon  the  three 
others,  glorying  that  at  least  he  could  die  fight- 
ing. 

But  he  did  not  mean  to  die.  If  he  could  but 
get  an  instant's  start  he  could  back  his  sober  wits 
against  their  drunken  ones,  in  the  darkness. 

Hickey  proved  unequal  to  battle,  and  a  single 
thrust  put  him  temporarily  out  of  the  fight.  Then 
Card  heard  Broome's  voice. 

"Shoot  'im!  Shoot  'im,  somebody!"  he  roared, 
and  Card  realized  that  one  of  the  men  he  struggled 
with  had  drawn  a  gun. 

He  seized  the  hand  that  held  the  weapon,  and 
there  was  a  three-cornered  fight  for  its  possession. 

Broome  was  on  his  feet,  now,  trying  to  find  a 
point  of  attack.  Card  was  doing  more  than  fight 
for  the  gun.  He  was  gradually  forcing  activities 
in  the  direction  of  the  horses.  If  only  he  could 
shake  free  for  an  instant,  and  make  a  run  for  it! 
He  meant  to  secure  Broome's  mount.  In  a  dash 
for  freedom  he  felt  that  the  odds  would  be  with 
him. 

308 


THE  WELL  IN  THE  DESERT 

Broome  had  by  now  got  into  the  struggle  again, 
and  hurled  himself,  from  behind,  upon  the  man  he 
hated.  Card  felt  the  fellow's  great  hands  closing 
about  his  throat,  when  suddenly,  the  revolver  for 
which  he  was  fighting  was  discharged. 

Broome  sank  back  with  a  yell  and  a  moment 
later,  somewhere,  far  out  on  the  plain,  another 
revolver  cracked. 

"Somebody 's  coming !"  the  fellow  called  "Hank" 
gasped  out,  wrenching  free.  "We  'd  better  git!" 

The  sense  of  approaching  danger  sobered  him, 
for  the  instant,  and  he  sprang  toward  his  horse. 
The  other  fellow  would  have  followed,  but  Card 
held  him  fast.  He,  too,  realized  that  help  was  at 
hand,  and  the  realization  renewed  his  strength.  A 
moment  later,  with  wild  yells,  and  a  rush  of  swift 
hoofs,  two  riders  dashed  up. 

Hank  threw  himself  into  the  saddle.  Manuel 
Gordo  was  quicker  than  he,  however,  and  bore 
him  to  the  ground  with  one  sweep  of  a  heavy 
arm,  while  Sago  Irish,  Manuel's  mate,  dashed  to 
Card's  assistance.  His  ready  rope  had  already 
secured  the  fellow  called  "Jim,"  when  the  buck- 
board  appeared,  Sandy  lashing  his  broncos  to  a 
mad  run. 

The  stars  were  out,  lighting  the  sky  with  a  bril- 
liance that  shamed  the  lantern's  yellow  glow,  and 
Card's  heart  leaped  when  he  saw  the  lithe  figure 

309 


THE  WELL  IN  THE  DESERT 

that  sprang  from  the  back-seat,  as  Sandy  Larch 
brought  the  horses  to  their  haunches. 

The  foreman  was  already  hurrying  to  his 
friend,  but  he  stopped  short  as  Gard,  never  seeing 
him,  turned  toward  Helen.  Mrs.  Hallard,  too, 
had  fallen  behind,  and  the  two  stood  face  to  face 
in  the  bright  starlight. 

"Helen!" 

It  was  all  that  Gard  could  say,  but  his  voice  was 
full  of  wonder,  and  joy.  He  never  noticed  that 
he  had  called  the  girl  by  her  first  name. 

Nor  did  she.  For  an  instant  she  poised,  bird- 
like,  her  shining  eyes  seeking  his.  All  thought  of 
their  surroundings  had  fallen  away  from  both; 
there  was  for  them,  in  that  moment;  only  the  holy 
mystery  of  love,  filling  their  souls.  He  held  out 
his  arms  and  she  came  to  him  as  naturally  as  a 
child  seeks  its  mother. 

Neither  spoke.  His  face  was  against  the  be- 
wildering fragrance  of  her  hair  as  her  head  lay 
upon  his  breast.  He  held  her  close,  in  the  safe, 
sweet  haven  of  his  arms. 

He  tried  to  raise  her  face,  that  he  might  see  it, 
but  she  kept  it  hidden,  blessing  the  kind,  wise  stars, 
that  would  not  reveal  her  scarlet  cheeks. 

"Look  up,  darling!  Oh,  my  love,  let  me  see 
your  eyes!" 

For  answer  her  arms  stole  up  to  his  neck,  and 
310 


THE  WELL  IN  THE  DESERT 

she  clung  the  closer  against  the  strong,  brave  heart 
that  had  borne  so  much. 

"Did  they  hurt  you  ?"  she  whispered.  "Are  you 
all  safe  now?  Oh,  oh,  my  dear  heart — what  if 
you  had  not  been !" 

She  was  trembling  from  head  to  foot.  He 
took  her  two  hands  in  one  of  his,  carrying  them  to 
his  lips. 

"I  am  all  right,"  he  said,  "if  I  can  only  be  sure 
I  am  awake.  But  how  can  I  believe  you  are  here 
if  I  do  not  see  your  face?" 

She  raised  it  at  last,  turning  it  up  to  his  gaze 
under  the  pure  starlight,  and  the  sight  held  him  in 
a  hush  of  wonder. 

"You  see  it  is  I."  She  forced  a  little  smile  to 
her  trembling  lips,  and  looked  at  him,  half  afraid. 

"Yes,  yes,"  he  whispered,  "it  really  is.  And  you 
came  to  me.  Don't  go  away,  will  you?  Don't 
ever,  ever  leave  me!" 


CHAPTER  XIV 

"\TELLING  wildly  through  the  night,  the  other 
JL  Palo  Verde  riders  came  pounding  over  the 
sand.  Sandy  Larch,  who,  with  Mrs.  Hallard,  had 
been  investigating  the  extent  of  Broome's  injuries, 
straightened  up. 

"Where  's  Westcott?"  he  shouted.  "Any  of 
you  seen  the  black  hound?  Wing  Chang  said  he 
had  something  to  do  with  this  business." 

Broome  gave  a  sort  of  howl,  whether  of  pain  or 
of  protest,  no  one  heeded,  no  one  cared.  The 
new-comers  crowded  around  the  foreman. 

"Where  is  he?"  They  demanded,  excitedly, 
"Which  way  'd  'e  go?" 

"Search  me,"  was  Sandy's  reply.  "He  must 
a'  drifted  before  I  come  up.  All  I  know  is  Wing 
Chang  said  he  was  one  o'  the  devils  after  Card." 

Hickey,  who  had  been  taken  with  the  others, 
roused  from  his  drunken  slumber  at  the  sound  of 
Westcott's  name. 

"He  ain't  here/'  he  muttered,  "Weshcott  's  in 
312 


THE  WELL  IN  THE  DESERT 

Sylvania,  takin'  care  of  's  health.  Thash  where 
he  ish." 

The  cowboys  were  off  before  he  had  finished, 
and  as  no  one  noticed  him,  he  slumbered  again. 

"What  will  they  do  with  him?"  whispered 
Helen.  She  had  drawn  away  from  Gard  when 
the  others  appeared',  but  he  still  held  her  hand. 

"Nothing,  dear,"  he  replied.  "They  won't  find 
him.  He  's  safe  at  Sylvania.  I  only  wish  you 
were  as  far  away  from  here  as  he  is." 

"She  will  be  in  a  shake,"  Sandy  Larch  called, 
overhearing  him.  "An'  so  '11  you  be,  too." 

Sandy  had  assured  himself  that  bad  whiskey 
and  rage  were  more  responsible  for  Broome's 
groans  than  the  bullet  which  had  shattered  his 
collar-bone,  and  ploughed  his  shoulder.  The  fel- 
low's howls  and  oaths  had  been  silenced  by  a  kick, 
and  no  longer  made  night  hideous. 

"Sago,"  Sandy  said,  turning  to  one  of  his  cow- 
boys, "I  reckon  you  V  Manuel  's  equal  to  the  care 
o'  these  citizens.  They  kin  all  sit  their  horses,  I 
guess,  an'  you  two  kin  ride  herd  on  'em,  into 
Sylvania.  I  'd  gather  in  their  guns,  if  't  was  me 
doin'  it,  on'  leave  'em  with  fatty  Harkins  till 
mornin'.  I  dare  say  they  '11  be  some  peacabler 
by  then." 

The  foreman  had  already  eased  Broome's  shoul- 
der, crudely  enough,  by  means  of  an  arm-sling, 

313 


THE  WELL  IN  THE  DESERT 

improvised  from  the  riata  that  the  fellow  had 
meant  to  use  for  Card. 

"He  '11  do  till  he  gits  to  Sylvania,"  he  said, 
with  an  indifference  that  was  not  feigned,  "Mebby 
there  '11  be  somebody  there  to  tend  to  'im."  And 
he  left  the  would-be  lynchers  to  the  tender  mercies 
of  their  captors. 

ASHLEY  WESTCOTT  was  mounting  his  hired  horse 
in  front  of  the  hotel,  when  a  stranger,  'on  a  hard- 
ridden,  pacing  buckskin,  stopped  beside  the  rail. 

"Say,  friend,"  he  drawled,  catching  sight  of  the 
lawyer,  "Your  name  happen  to  be  Westcott?" 

"Is  that  any  of  your  business?"  snapped  the 
owner  of  the  name. 

"Not  a  bit,"  was  the  calm  reply,  "an'  I  don't 
care  a  damn.  It  only  happened  I  was  rounded-up, 
awhile  back,  by  a  parcel  of  fellers  't  said  they  was 
from  the  Palo  Verde.  They  'd  mistook  me  fer 
you,  an'  you  sure  have  some  enthusiastic  friends. 
They  're  a  whoopin'  it  up  yet,  I  guess,  -lowin' 
they  're  seekin'  your  society." 

"Who  were  they?"  Westcott  asked. 

"I  did  n't  exchange  no  cards  with  the  gents," 
the  stranger  replied,  grinning.  "  'T  was  enough  fer 
me  to  know  they  was  friends  o'  yourn'.  An'  seein' 
you  now,  to  realize  your  lovely  disposition,  I  don't 
know  's  I  wonder  at  the  warmth  o'  the  feelin' 

3H 


THE  WELL  IN  THE  DESERT 

they  showed  fer  you.  They  may  be  yer  dearest 
friends,"  he  went  on,  more  seriously,  "an'  you 
may  be  goin'  to  meet  'em  this  minute,  but  what  I 
sot  out  to  say  was,  that  if  a  party  o'  my  dearest 
friends  was  lookin'  fer  me  in  the  tone  o'  voice 
them  fellers  was  exhibitin'  I  'd  either  stay  where 
I  was,  if  I  thought  it  was  a  good  place,  er  I  'd  git 
on  my  nag  an'  I  'd  drift,  mighty  lively." 

"Bah!"  was  Westcott's  reply,  as  he  got  into 
the  saddle.  "I  don't  know  why  anyone  should  be 
hunting  for  me,  and  I  'm  not  afraid  of  them  if 
they  are.  People  generally  know  where  to  find 
me  if  they  have  business  with  me.  .  .  .  Thank 
you,  though,"  he  muttered,  recollecting  himself. 

"You  're  sure  welcome,"  the  stranger  said,  turn- 
ing away,  as  the  lawyer  rode  down  the  street. 

".You  *re  sure  good  an'  welcome,"  he  added, 
to  himself,  "to  all  'ts  likely  comin'  to  you." 

"THERE  are  a  lot  of  things  I  Ve  got  to  straighten 
out." 

It  was  Card,  who  spoke,  from  his  place  beside 
Sandy  Larch  in  the  buckboard. 

"I  think,  too,"  he  added,  addressing  Sandy,  a 
note  of  sadness  in  his  tone,  "that  I  must  tell  you 
good  friends  about  them,  right  away." 

No* one  spoke,  but  before  he  had  time  to  wonder 
at  their  silence  Helen  leaned  forward  and  thrust 

315 


THE  WELL  IN  THE  DESERT 

into  his  hands  a  big,  official-looking  envelop,  which 
Mrs.  Hallard  had  given  her,  with  a  few  whispered 
words  of  explanation. 

"What  's  this?"  Gard  asked,  peering  at  it  in 
the  uncertain  light. 

Helen  laughed,  happily  and  Sandy  Larch  gave 
a  low  chuckle. 

"It  's  something  that  '11  interest  you  a  lot,"  said 
he,  "an"  I  reckon  it  '11  keep ;  but  good  Lord,  Gard ! 
Why  'n't  you  ever  let  on?"  Sandy's  voice  was 
full  of  loving  reproach. 

"If  you  'd  only  put  me  hip,"  he  continued,  "a 
word  'd  a'  fixed  it.  But  I  get  the  shivers  yet, 
thinkin'  o'  all  might  'a'  happened." 

"Don't,  Sandy,"  pleaded  Helen.  She  was  still 
trembling,  with  excitement  and  horror. 

"Tell  him ;  quick !"  she  urged. 

"Tell  me  what?"  Gard  was  dizzy  with  weari- 
ness and  bewilderment.  He  held  his  big  envelop 
up,  trying  to  make  out  what  it  was. 

"To  think—"  Sandy  was  still  unable,  for  very 
eagerness,  to  come  to  the  point.  "Who  'd  a 
dreamt  you  never  knew  Jim  Texas  confessed,  after 
all!" 

"Confessed?"  Card's  voice  thrilled  with  sud- 
den joy. 

"God !  But  it  's  good  to  be  a  free  man  again !" 
he  said  softly,  and  the  low  spoken  words  sent  a 

316 


THE  WELL  IN  THE  DESERT 

thrill  through  his  hearers.  Years  of  suffering 
seemed  expressed  in  them. 

Then  the  others'  tongues  were  loosened,  and 
by  the  time  the  Palo  Verde  was  reached,  the  story 
had  been  pieced  together,  bit  by  bit. 

"Friends/'  Card  said,  as  they  walked  together 
from  the  corrals  to  the  casa,  "I  don't  know  what 
to  say;  but  I— I  sure  thank  you." 

He  bared  his  head,  and  looked  up  at  the  stars. 
They  were  still  there,  swinging  their  ancient  round 
as  they  had  done,  night  after  night,  above  the 
glade. 

"Yes,"  he  said,  speaking  to  them  as  often  and 
often  he  had  done  before,  when  he  watched  their 
solemn  progress  across  the  sky.  "You  knew.  You 
told  me  't  would  come  out  all  right,  and  it  has." 

Then,  as  Jacinta  appeared  in  the  doorway,  full 
of  anxiety  about  Helen,  they  went  into  the 
house. 

"I  '11  see  you  to-morrow  morning,"  Gard  said 
an  hour  later,  to  Helen,  as  they  stood  together 
near  the  cottonwoocls.  Sandy  had  gone  to  the 
corral  for  the  horses;  he  meant  to  ride  back  to 
Sylvania  with  his  friend.  Helen  had  persuaded 
Mrs.  Hallard  to  remain  at  the  hagienda  for  the 
night. 

"I  must  see  you  just  a  little  while,"  Gard  said, 
"before  I  go  away." 

317 


THE  WELL  IN  THE  DESERT 

"Go  away?" 

Helen's  voice  was  full  of  surprise  as  she  re- 
peated his  words.  "Where  are  you  going?"  she 
asked;  for  he  was  smiling  down  at  her  as  though 
the  thought  of  separation  gave  him  pleasure. 

"Mexico,"  was  the  reply.  "Sandy  says  your 
father  is  down  in  Sonora." 

"Why,  yes :  but  he  will  be  home  within  a  week. 
He  would  n't  be  away  over  Christmas." 

"I  know ;  but  I  can't  wait.  I  've  got  to  see  him. 
I  Ve  got  to  ask  him—  Card's  voice  sank  to  a 
whisper,  "I  've  got  to  ask  him  what  he  's  going  to 
give  me  for  Christmas." 

"Oh!"  the  girl's  shyness  held  them  both  silent 
for  a  moment,  ere  she  found  speech  again. 

"I  know  what  /  want,"  she  presently  said,  edg- 
ing away  from  the  other  matter. 

"What?" 

The  word  sounded  like  a  guarantee  that  what 
she  wanted  would  be  forthcoming. 

"Jinny." 

They  both  laughed,  like  children,  at  the  idea. 

"Jinny  's  yours,"  Card  said,  promptly :  "but  she 
'nd  I  go  together.  We  can't  be  parted.  I  could 
n't  bear  the  separation." 

"Perhaps—"  He  had  to  bend  his  head  to 
catch  the  low-spoken  words --"Perhaps — Father's 
Christmas  present  will— will  reconcile  you." 

318 


THE  WELL  IN  THE  DESERT 

What  his  answer  was  is  not  of  record.  There 
was  but  a  moment  to  give  to  it ;  for  a  whistle  from 
Sandy  presently  warned  Card  that  his  horse  was 
ready,  and  the  two  whispered  their  good-night, 
in  the  friendly  darkness. 


3*9 


CHAPTER  XV 

GARD  and  Helen  were  married  late  in  January. 
Card's  patience,  and  hard-won  philosophy, 
seemed  wholly  to  desert  him  at  the  thought  of 
longer  delay. 

"One  would  think,"  Helen  laughed,  as  he 
pleaded  with  her  to  set  an  earlier  day,  "that  you 
were  afraid  I  might  vanish." 

"I  am/'  answered  Gard.  "I  always  have  been, 
from  the  minute  I  saw  you  come  around  the  cor- 
ner of  the  house  that  morning,  with  your  tray  and 
grape-fruit,  I  Ve  been  expecting  I  'd  wake  up 
some  day  and  find  that  this  part  of  the  dream 
is  n't  true." 

Helen's  cheek  lingered  against  the  hand  which 
he  put  out  as  if  to  reassure  himself  of  her  pres- 
ence. 

"It  is  true,"  she  said,  softly,  "truer  than  the 
other  parts,  the  hard,  cruel  parts.  They  are  the 
things  that  have  vanished,  dear." 

"I  guess  you  're  right,"  was  Card's  reply. 
320 


THE  WELL  IN  THE  DESERT 

"They  were  the  dream,  and  this  is  the  waking-up ; 
the  blessed  waking-up." 

"Do  you  know,"  he  suddenly  said,  "it  was  the 
longest  kind  of  a  time — up  in  the  mountain — be- 
fore I  got  over  being  afraid,  just  before  I  'd  open 
my  eyes  in  the  morning?" 

"Afraid?" 

"Yes.  That  I  might  see— might  not  see— the 
open." 

"Yes,  dear?" 

Helen  spoke  quietly,  though  it  seemed  to  her  as 
if  her  suffocating  heart  beats  must  betray  to  him 
what  she  was  feeling.  Card  had  told  her  of  his 
escape  from  the  cloudburst;  all  the  incidents  of  his 
Robinson  Crusoe  life,  as  she  called  it,  of  the  com- 
ing of  the  camel;  of  that  wonderful  journey  to 
the  glade;  of  the  glade  itself;  but  this  he  had  never 
spoken  of.  She  had  thought  of  it  as  a  door  in  his 
heart  yet  closed  against  her.  Now  it  was  opening, 
to  admit  her  to  his  chamber  of  sorrow. 

"I  don't  know  what  kept  me  alive  through  those 
other  years,"  he  continued.  "Sometimes  it  seems 
to  me  there  was  n't  much  there  worth  keeping 
alive.  There  was  n't  much  got  away  but  a  rack 
of  bones,  held  together  by  hate." 

Helen's  hands  stole  out  and  found  both  his  as 
he  went  on. 

"I  thought  I  'd  got  to  get  out,"  he  seemed  as 

321 


THE  WELL  IN  THE  DESERT 

if  thinking  aloud,  "I  thought  I  'd  got  to  get  out 
some  day,  just  to  kill  Westcott.  Then  when  I 
did  get  away,  I  had  n't  anything  left  but  the  long- 
ing to  crawl  off  somewhere  and  die.  I  'm  not 
sorry  about  that  now,  though  often,  in  the  moun- 
tain, I  raged,  to  think  I  could  n't  have  killed  him 
that  night.  Then  I  learned  better.  But  I  feel 
mighty  thankful  now,  that  I  never  hurt  him." 

"You  would  never  have  hurt  him,"  Helen  mur- 
mured. 

"There  were  times  when  I  would  if  I  could 
have  got  to  him,"  Gard  replied,  "but  I  got  over 
my  hate.  Somehow,  that  kind  of  thing  can't  live 
in  big,  clean  places  like  that  I  drifted  to.  The 
desert 's  a  hard  place,  my  girl.  It  don't  look  lovely 
as  this  when  you  're  fighting  for  life  in  it.  It  's 
fierce  as  a  tiger,  but  there  ain't  any  hate  in  it. 
That  's  only  in  men,  but  it  's  deadlier  than  any- 
thing the  desert  's  got." 

"There  's  got  to  be  desert,  I  guess.  There 
was  a  man  in  the  surveyor's  gang  I  was  with 
once,  years  ago,  always  said  that.  He  said  you 
take  away  the  desert  and  some  of  the  glorious 
climates  on  this  slope  would  all  be  gone." 

"I   'm  talking  a  lot";   he   interrupted   himself 

with  half  a  laugh,  "but  just  once,  this  thing  's  got 

to  be  looked  at;  because  it  was  so  black,  and  I 

can't  let  you  think  I  was  n't  black  with  it.     It 

322 


THE  WELL  IN  THE  DESERT 

took  that,  I  guess,  along  with  the  rest  of  it  all, 
to  make  me  see  things  the  way  I  do  now;  but  I 
ain't  asking  pity  for  it.  It  was  a  desert  place,  sure 
enough,  but  now  it  '3  over.  I  guess  I  learned 
some  things  worth  while.  Then  when  I  got  out 
on  the  big  desert,  dear,  I  found  God  there,  same  's 
I  'd  believed  when  I  was  a  boy,  back  on  the  prairie. 
I  should  n't  wonder  if  He  'd  been  there  in  the  jail, 
too.  That  's  the  truth  of  it." 

The  girl  leaned  quickly,  and  gathered  both  his 
hands  to  her  lips,  love,  thankfulness,  and  pride  in 
his  manhood,  all  struggling  for  expression.  Stout 
old  Chaucer's  brave  words  came  to  her  mind,  and 
she  said  them  aloud,  with  lips  yet  trembling  with 
tenderness. 

"And  truth  thee  shall  deliver,  it  is  no  drede." 

"That  sounds  like  one  of  your  old  poets,"  he 
said,  "and  I  guess  he  may  have  been  in  the  desert 
and  learned.  'There  is  no  drede',"  he  repeated, 
thoughtfully.  "I  suppose  he  means  no  fear. 
That  's  right." 

He  was  looking  into  Helen's  eyes,  his  'two  hands 
closing  over  hers. 

"There  is  no  fear,"  he  asserted.  "There  is 
nothing  to  fear.  Oh,  girl— my  girl!  With  hate 
gone,  and  love  come  in,  there  's  nothing  in  the 
wide  world  to  fear!" 

February  was  well  along  when  first  they  saw 


THE  WELL  IN  THE  DESERT 

the  glade  together.  Morgan  Anderson  and  Card 
had  organized  a  company  which,  later,  was  to 
exploit  the  mine.  Card  had  seen  to  it  that  Sandy 
Larch  had  an  interest,  and  Mrs.  Hallard.  Kate 
Hallard  had  gone  away  from  Sylvania,  but  her 
matters  were  in  good  hands.  She  had  sold  her 
business  to  Sing  Fat,  and  gone  to  California. 

"For  one  thing,"  she  had  said  to  Helen,  when 
the  two  had  a  long  talk  together.  "I  'm  goin'  to 
learn  t'  talk  decent.  I  can't  stand  it.  Sometimes 
when  I'm  sittin'  still,  not  sayin'  a  word,  jes'  lis- 
tenin'  to  you,  seems  's  if  the  language  I  'm  thinkin' 
in  is  makin'  a  noise,  it  is  so  howlin'  bad. 

"Don't  you  think  I  don't  know;  ner  don't  you 
b'lieve  it  don't  make  no  difference.  It  makes  a 
difference  inside  me.  I  'm  sick  of  it.  Sick  of  all 
't  means  to  me.  I  never  had  a  chance  to  find  it  out 
before;  but  now  I  know,  an'  I  can't  bear  it.  I  'm 
goin'  t'  learn  somethin',  an'  then,  so  long  's  I 
always  want  to  work — you  could  n't  make  a  lady 
o'  the  likes  o'  me,  not  if  you  laid  the  money  on 
with  a  trowel,— I  'm  goin'  to  work, at  something 
worth  while,  an'  if  I  ain't  too  old  I  'm  goin'  to 
learn  to  be  a  nurse.  Anyhow,  it  's  good-by  the 
eatin'  house  fer  mine!" 

Helen  and  Card  went  with  the  first  outfit  of 
mining-supplies  to  the  claim.  These  were  taken 
by  wagon  to  the  foot  of  the  mountain,  and  thence, 

324 


THE  WELL  IN  THE  DESERT 

up  the  trail,  on  the  backs  of  the  mules  that  had 
pulled  them.  Card  had  gone  for  Jinny,  bringing 
her  by  rail  to  Yuma,  their  point  of  departure,  and 
she  and  Helen  had  become  friends  forthwith.  To- 
gether they  led  the  procession  up  the  ancient  wash ; 
for  Helen  insisted  upon  walking,  and  her  saddle 
horse  and  Card's  followed  in  the  rear. 

The  glade  lay  in  the  pleasant  afternoon  sun- 
shine much  as  it  -had  done  the  day  that  Card  said 
good-by  to  it.  A  big  live-oak  branch  had  fallen 
across  the  ocotilla  bed  where  he  had  often  rested. 
Helen  surveyed  the  rude  structure  with  quivering 
lips,  as  he  pulled  the  branch  away. 

Sandy  Larch  was  unloading  the  animals,  piling 
up  the  stores,  and  getting  things  into  shape,  with 
the  help  of  the  three  men  of  the  outfit.  By  the 
big  fireplace  against  the  rock  Wing  Chang,  who 
had  cast  in  his  fortunes  with  the  new  company, 
was  taking  stock  of  Card's  culinary  apparatus. 

"What  do  you  think  of  it,  Chang?"  the  latter 
asked,  as  the  cook  investigated  the  upturned  bean- 
pot. 

"Where  you  catchee  him?"  the  Chinaman  de- 
manded, much  mystified. 

"I  made  it.  Made  them  all."  Card  waved  a 
hand  at  the  various  fire-blackened  clay  pots. 
Chang  tapped  the  bean-kettle  with  an  investigating 
knuckle,  testing  its  soundness. 

325 


THE  WELL  IN  THE  DESERT 

"Him  no  clacked,"  he  said,  with  a  grunt. 
"Mebby  you  no  clacked;  mebby  so  allee  lightee." 

And  no  further  expression  of  opinion  could  be 
won  from  him. 

Helen  made  a  swift  round  of  the  place,  Card 
following,  scarcely  able  to  believe  in  his  own  happi- 
ness. She  inspected  the  cabin,  and  cast  her  vote 
for  living  outside  it.  The  seats  and  tables  that 
Gard  had  contrived  gave  her  great  delight,  and 
she  rejoiced  in  the  flaming  green  of  the  volunteer 
crop  of  oats  into  which  Jinny  had  already  found 
her  wilful  way. 

"I  dare  say  your  gold  mine  's  all  right,  Gard," 
Sandy  said,  coming  up  to  survey  the  oat  patch, 
"but  if  it  should  n't  be,  there  's  another  one  right 
on  this  here  plain,  if  that  water  was  turned  acrost 
it." 

"I  vum!"  He  pulled  a  head  of  oats  and  ex- 
amined it.  "The  Palo  Verde  's  a  howlin'  wilder- 
ness," he  avowed,  "to  what  a  man  could  have 
here." 

Gard  laughed  as  he  led  Jinny  ignominiously  out 
of  her  green  field. 

"No  reason  why  you  should  n't  be  that  man," 
said  he.  "It  's  government  land,  all  ready  to  be 
entered  upon." 

"If  that  's  a  fact,"  was  Sandy's  reply,  "an'  you 
ain't  got  no  intentions  on  it,  then  Sandy  Larch, 

326 


THE  WELL  IN  THE  DESERT 

cow-punch,  is  likely  to  blossom  out  as  A.  Larch, 
rancherio.  Can't  you  see  me  a  swellin'  senor?" 

Wing  Chang's  bright  fire  was  lighting  up  the 
trees  and  rocks  when  Helen,  w,ho  had  been  be- 
stowing her  belongings  inside  the  cabin,  came  out 
with  something  in  her  hands. 

"What  is  this?"  she  demanded  of  Card,  still 
hovering  near. 

He  took  the  big  shell  from  her  and  stirred  the 
palo  verde  thorns  about,  his  mind  a  surge  of 
emotions. 

"What  are  those  for?"  Helen  asked,  again. 

"Why,"  he  said,  at  last,  "they  're  my  tally  of 
the  days  I  lived  in  the  glade." 

She  looked  at  them,  in  the  twilight,  her  face 
touched  with  wonder. 

"How  many,  many  there  seem  to  be,"  she  mur- 
mured. 

"There  ought  to  be  somewhere  about  seven 
hundred,  I  suppose,"  was  Card's  reply.  "We 
don't  need  'em  any  more.  Let  's  help  along  the 
blaze  with  'em." 

She  caught  his  hands,  with  a  little  cry  of  dis- 
may. 

"No!  No!"  cried  she,  "You  must  not  destroy 
them!  Your  record  of  days;  hard,  thorny  days." 
She  covered  the  thorns  with  one  hand,  in  a  pas- 
sionate gesture  of  protection. 

327 


THE  WELL  IN  THE  DESERT 

"They  were  good  days,"  he  answered,  trying  to 
comfort  her.  "I  got  a  lot  of  good  out  of  them." 

"But  oh,  the  price  you  paid!"  Tears  glistened 
in  her  eyes.  . 

They  were  in  the  shadow  of  a  big  live-oak,  and 
he  drew  her  to  him. 

"It  was  sure  a  man's  price,"  he  said,  looking 
into  her  face.  "But  I  got  full  value  for  it." 


THE  night  was  far  spent  when  Card  awoke.  A 
late  moon  rode  high  in  the  heavens,  flooding  the 
glade  with  white  light.  The  familiarity  of  the 
scene  bewildered  his  rousing  consciousness.  The 
circling  trees,  the  murmur  of  water,  the  far- 
seeming  faint  glow  of  embers  in  the  great  fire- 
place, his  narrow  ocotilla  bed  with  its  bear-skin 
covering:  how  well  he  knew  them  all!  Had  he 
but  slept  and  dreamed,  to  awaken  after  all  to  the 
daily  round  of  his  accustomed  solitude? 

He  raised  himself  upon  one  elbow.  On  the  cot 
which  they  had  brought  for  her,  there,  within 
reach  of  his  hand,  Helen  lay  sleeping.  A  beam 
of  the  white  light  sifted  down  through  encircling 
trees  and  fell  across  her  face,  round  which  the 
night  wind  had  fluttered  her  hair  to  soft  disorder. 
Her  head  was  thrown  back,  her  chin  nestling  in 
one  supporting  palm.  The  pure,  tender  outline  of 

328 


THE  WELL  IN  THE  DESERT 

brow  and  cheek  thrilled  him  as  he  gazed,  his  soul 
touched  to  awe. 

Long,  long  he  looked,  worship  and  wonder 
stirring  the  deeps  of  his  nature.  It  was  no  dreamj 
she  was  there  beside  him;  there  was  no  drede. 

He  sank  back  upon  his  pillow,  tears  of  supreme 
happiness  brimming  his  eyes,  and  yielded  him 
wholly  to  the  quiet  and  peace  of  the  large  place. 

THE  END. 


OF  THE 

UNIVER 

OF 


I     UNIV 
\ 

X^tj 


329 


